XXI.

Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down Where still, in hope, affection’s thoughts may rise; Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown Which earth display’d to claim thee from the skies. Look down! and if thy spirit yet retain Memory of aught that once was fondly dear, Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in vain, And in their hours of loneliness--be near! Blest was thy lot e’en here--and one faint sigh, Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest eternity![63]

[60]

“I saw him last on this terrace proud, Walking in health and gladness; Begirt with his court--and in all the crowd Not a single look of sadness.

* * * * *

“The time since he walk’d in glory thus, To the grave till I saw him carried, Was an age of the mightiest change to _us_, But to _him_ a night unvaried.

* * * * *

“A daughter beloved--a queen--a son-- And a son’s sole child had perish’d; And sad was each heart, save the only one By which they were fondest cherish’d.”

--“The Contrast,” written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 1820, by Horace Smith, Esq.

[61]

“The bright day is done, And we are for the dark.”--Shakspeare.

[62] “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

Shakspeare.

[63] These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in _Blackwood’s Magazine_, vol. iii. April 1818.

EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW.

“The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemans’ acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects;--they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega--names embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated--and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again ‘constrained’ to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The ‘Dirge of a Child,’ which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language:--

“No bitter tears for thee be shed,” etc.--Vide page 55.

WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.[64]

“Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!”

The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d, Wild Caledonia’s classic ground, Where the bold sons of other days Won their high fame in Ossian’s lays, And fell--but not till Carron’s tide With Roman blood was darkly dyed. The morn rose bright--and heard the cry Sent by exulting hosts on high, And saw the white-cross banner float (While rung each clansman’s gathering-note) O’er the dark plumes and serried spears Of Scotland’s daring mountaineers; As, all elate with hope, they stood, To buy their freedom with their blood.

The sunset shone--to guide the flying, And beam a farewell to the dying! The summer moon, on Falkirk’s field, Streams upon eyes in slumber seal’d; Deep slumber--not to pass away When breaks another morning’s ray, Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voice Bids ardent hearts again rejoice: What sunbeam’s glow, what clarion’s breath, May chase the still cold sleep of death? Shrouded in Scotland’s blood-stain’d plaid, Low are her mountain-warriors laid; They fell, on that proud soil whose mould Was blent with heroes’ dust of old, And, guarded by the free and brave, Yielded the Roman--but a grave! Nobly they fell; yet with them died The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride. Vainly they fell--that martyr host-- All, save the land’s high soul, is lost. Blest are the slain! _they_ calmly sleep, Nor hear their bleeding country weep! The shouts of England’s triumph telling Reach not their dark and silent dwelling; And those surviving to bequeath Their sons the choice of chains or death, May give the slumberer’s lowly bier An envying glance--but not a tear.

But thou, the fearless and the free, Devoted Knight of Ellerslie! No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow; No shade of fear or weak despair Blends with indignant sorrow there! The ray which streams on yon red field, O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield, Glitters not _there_ alone, to shed Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead; But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave Flows near that deathbed of the brave, Illuming all the midnight scene, Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. But other beams, O Patriot! shine In each commanding glance of thine, And other fight hath fill’d thine eye With inspiration’s majesty, Caught from th’ immortal flame divine Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine! Thy voice a prophet’s tone hath won, The grandeur Freedom lends her son; Thy bearing a resistless power, The ruling genius of the hour! And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, Whom Carron’s waves from thee divide, Whose haughty gesture fain would seek To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, Feels his reluctant mind controll’d By thine of more heroic mould: Though struggling all in vain to war With that high soul’s ascendant star, He, with a conqueror’s scornful eye, Would mock the name of Liberty.

Heard ye the Patriot’s awful voice?-- “Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice! Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, The harvest of the battle-plain, And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot Eternity shall cancel not? Rejoice!--with sounds of wild lament O’er her dark heaths and mountains sent, With dying moan and dirge’s wail, Thy ravaged country bids thee hail! Rejoice!--while yet exulting cries From England’s conquering host arise, And strains of choral triumph tell Her Royal Slave hath fought too well! Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest Brooding o’er Scotland’s mountain-crest! Her shield is cleft, her banner torn, O’er martyr’d chiefs her daughters mourn, And not a breeze but wafts the sound Of wailing through the land around. Yet deem not thou, till life depart, High hope shall leave the patriot’s heart; Or courage to the storm inured, Or stern resolve by woes matured, Oppose, to Fate’s severest hour, Less than unconquerable power! No! though the orbs of heaven expire, _Thine_, Freedom! is a quenchless fire; And woe to him whose might would dare The energies of _thy_ despair! No!--when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast O’er thy land’s charter’d mountain-blast, Then in my yielding soul shall die The glorious faith of Liberty!”

“Wild hopes! o’er dreamer’s mind that rise!” With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries, (Yet his dark cheek is flush’d with shame, And his eye fill’d with troubled flame;) “Vain, brief illusions! doom’d to fly England’s red path of victory! Is not her sword unmatch’d in might? Her course a torrent in the fight? The terror of her name gone forth Wide o’er the regions of the north? Far hence, midst other heaths and snows, Must freedom’s footstep now repose. And thou--in lofty dreams elate, Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate! ’Tis vain--the land is lost and won: Sheathed be the sword--its task is done. Where are the chiefs that stood with thee First in the battles of the free? The firm in heart, in spirit high?-- They sought yon fatal field to die. Each step of Edward’s conquering host Hath left a grave on Scotland’s coast.”

“Vassal of England, yes! a grave Where sleep the faithful and the brave; And who the glory would resign Of death like theirs, for life like thine? They slumber--and the stranger’s tread May spurn thy country’s noble dead; Yet, on the land they loved so well, Still shall their burning spirit dwell, Their deeds shall hallow minstrel’s theme, Their image rise on warrior’s dream, Their names be inspiration’s breath, Kindling high hope and scorn of death, Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, The flame that shall avenge their doom! This is no land for chains--away! O’er softer climes let tyrants sway. Think’st thou the mountain and the storm Their hardy sons for bondage form? Doth our stern wintry blast instil Submission to a despot’s will? No! _we_ were cast in other mould Than theirs by lawless power controll’d; The nurture of our bitter sky Calls forth resisting energy; And the wild fastnesses are ours, The rocks with their eternal towers. The soul to struggle and to dare Is mingled with our northern air, And dust beneath our soil is lying Of those who died for fame undying.

“Tread’st thou that soil! and can it be No loftier thought is roused in thee? Doth no high feeling proudly start From slumber in thine inmost heart? No secret voice thy bosom thrill, For thine own Scotland pleading still? Oh! wake thee yet--indignant, claim A nobler fate, a purer fame, And cast to earth thy fetters riven, And take thine offer’d crown from heaven. Wake! in that high majestic lot May the dark past be all forgot; And Scotland shall forgive the field Where with her blood thy shame was seal’d. E’en I--though on that fatal plain Lies my heart’s brother with the slain; Though, reft of his heroic worth, My spirit dwells alone on earth; And when all other grief is past, Must _this_ be cherish’d to the last-- Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, With faith unspotted as his own; Nor in thy noon of fame recall _Whose_ was the guilt that wrought his fall.”

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain? Are Freedom’s warning accents vain? No! royal Bruce! within thy breast Wakes each high thought, too long suppress’d. And thy heart’s noblest feelings live, Blent in that suppliant word--“Forgive!” “Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done! Wallace! thy fairest palm is won; And, kindling at my country’s shrine, My soul hath caught a spark from thine. Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour Of triumph and exulting power-- Deem not the light of peace could find A home within my troubled mind. Conflicts by mortal eye unseen, Dark, silent, secret, there have been, Known but to Him whose glance can trace Thought to its deepest dwelling-place! --’Tis past--and on my native shore I tread, a rebel son no more. Too blest, if yet my lot may be In glory’s path to follow thee; If tears, by late repentance pour’d, May lave the blood-stains from my sword!”

Far other tears, O Wallace! rise From the heart’s fountain to thine eyes; Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring, While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King! Be every wrong, by memory traced, In this full tide of joy effaced: Hail! and rejoice!--thy race shall claim A heritage of deathless fame, And Scotland shall arise at length Majestic in triumphant strength, An eagle of the rock, that won A way through tempests to the sun. Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand, The prophet-spirit of thy land: By torrent-wave, in desert vast, Those visions o’er my thought have pass’d; Where mountain vapours darkly roll, That spirit hath possess’d my soul; And shadowy forms have met mine eye. The beings of futurity; And a deep voice of years to be Hath told that Scotland shall be free! He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings! From thee the chief, th’ avenger springs! Far o’er the land he comes to save, His banners in their glory wave, And Albyn’s thousand harps awake On hill and heath, by stream and lake, To swell the strains that far around Bid the proud name of Bruce resound! And I--but wherefore now recall The whisper’d omens of my fall? They come not in mysterious gloom-- There is no bondage in the tomb! O’er the soul’s world no tyrant reigns, And earth alone for man hath chains! What though I perish ere the hour When Scotland’s vengeance wakes in power? If shed for her, my blood shall stain The field or scaffold not in vain: Its voice to efforts more sublime Shall rouse the spirit of her clime; And in the noontide of her lot, My country shall forget me not!”

* * * * *

_Art_ thou forgot? and hath thy worth Without its glory pass’d from earth? Rest with the brave, whose names belong To the high sanctity of song! Charter’d our reverence to control, And traced in sunbeams on the soul, _Thine_, Wallace! while the heart hath still One pulse a generous thought can thrill-- While youth’s warm tears are yet the meed Of martyr’s death or hero’s deed, Shall brightly live from age to age, Thy country’s proudest heritage! Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling, Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave, Thy step hath hallow’d rock and cave, And cold the wanderer’s heart must be That holds no converse there with thee! Yet, Scotland! to thy champion’s shade Still are thy grateful rites delay’d; From lands of old renown, o’erspread With proud memorials of the dead, The trophied urn, the breathing bust, The pillar guarding noble dust, The shrine where art and genius high Have labour’d for eternity-- The stranger comes: his eye explores The wilds of thy majestic shores, Yet vainly seeks one votive stone Raised to the hero all thine own.

Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore! Withhold that guerdon now no more. On some bold height of awful form, Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm, Sublimely mingling with the skies, Bid the proud Cenotaph arise: Not to _record_ the name that thrills Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills; Not to assert, with needless claim, The bright _for ever_ of its fame; But, in the ages yet untold, When _ours_ shall be the days of old, To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride In him, for thee who lived and died.

[64] _Advertisement by the Author._--“A native of Edinburgh, and member of the Highland Society of London, with a view to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable national monument to the memory of Wallace, lately offered prizes for the three best poems on the subject of that illustrious patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish throne. The following poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would have appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the public, under the direction of its proper editor, the giver of the prize; but his privilege has, with pride as well as pleasure, been yielded to a lady of the author’s own country, who solicited permission to avail herself of this opportunity of honouring and further remunerating the genius of the poet; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of the theme in which she has triumphed.

“It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their sufferings.”

[“Mrs Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in Edinburgh to enter the lists as a competitor, which she accordingly did, though without being in the slightest degree sanguine of success; so that the news of the prize having been decreed to her was no less unexpected than gratifying. The number of candidates, for this distinction, was so overwhelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the judges appointed to decide on their merits. A letter, written at this time, describes them as being reduced to absolute despair by the contemplation of the task which awaited them, having to read over a mass of poetry that would require a month at least to wade through. Some of the contributions were from the strangest aspirants imaginable; and one of them is mentioned as being as long as _Paradise Lost_. At length, however, the Herculean labour was accomplished; and the honour awarded to Mrs Hemans, on this occasion, seemed an earnest of the warm kindness and encouragement she was ever afterwards to receive at the hands of the Scottish public.”--_Memoir_, p. 31-2.

Although two-thirds of the compositions sent to the arbiters, on the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been mere trash, yet several afterwards came to light, through the press, of very considerable excellence. We would especially mention “Wallace and Bruce, a Vision,” published in _Constable’s Magazine_ for Dec. 1819; and “Wallace,” by James Hogg, subsequently included in the fourth volume of his Collected Works--Edin. 1822, p. 143-160.

“The Vision” is thus prefaced:--“Though far from entering into a hopeless competition with Mrs Hemans, I think the far-famed interview of our patriot heroes ought not to be left entirely to English celebration. Mrs Hemans has adorned the subject with the finest strains of pure poetry. Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of genuine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other muse but the _amor patriæ_, and seeks no other praise but what is due to heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient kingdom, and no higher name than that of ‘a kindly Scot.’”

The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, and forgets his discomfiture in generous acknowledgement of the merits of his rival. “This poem,” (Wallace,) says he, “was hurriedly and reluctantly written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs Felicia Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly, hers being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition. Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as coming from one of the people that were the hero’s foes, oppressors, and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for any poem that ever was written.”

Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such a man as the Author of “The Queen’s Wake”--a production entitled to a permanent place in British poetry, independently of the extraordinary circumstances under which it was composed. Whatever may be its blemishes, taken as a whole, “Kilmeny,” “Glenavin,” “Earl Walter,” “The Abbot Mackinnon,” and “The Witch of Fife”--more especially the first and the last--possess peculiar merits, and of a high kind; and are, I doubt not, destined to remain for ever embalmed in the memories of all true lovers of imaginative verse. Poor Hogg was the very reverse of Antæus--he was always in power except when he touched the earth.]

[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of publication:--

“When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised the judges who awarded to her the prize to send her poem to us, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie--Ireland her Tighe--England her Hemans.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine_, vol. v. Sept. 1819.

“Mrs Hemans so soon again!--and with a palm in her hand! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed.

“On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the Tweed--a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the references before the prizes were determined. Mrs Hemans’s was the first prize, against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred years ago, would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance with a native--if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in one great family.”--_Edin. Monthly Review_, vol. ii.

The estimation into which the poetry of Mrs Hemans was rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitled “Common Sense,” then published, and currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot, now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He then proceeds--

----“Next I’d place Felicia Hemans, second in the race; I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir Oft about rubbish, never mention her. They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding-- Mistress Felicia’s works are worth the reading.”

“Mrs Hemans,” adds the critical satirist in a note, “is a lady, (a young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves well of the republic of letters.”

The worthy bishop has lived to read “The Records of Woman;” and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among British classics.]

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.

THE ABENCERRAGE.

[The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the _Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada_. They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains their name, being called the “Sala de los Abencerrages.” Many of the most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.]

“Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colère dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seule peut écarter de sa tête le poids d’infamie dont il est accablé.--Il se venge, parce qu’à ses yeux il n’y a qu’une âme basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s’il la sentoit s’éteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir perdu une vertu.”

Sismondi.

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o’er; And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.

Hush’d are the voices that in years gone by Have mourn’d, exulted, menaced, through thy towers; Within thy pillar’d courts the grass waves high, And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers.

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, Through tall arcades unmark’d the sunbeam smiles, And many a tint of soften’d brilliance throws O’er fretted walls and shining peristyles.

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone, So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, Some charm’d abode of beings all unknown, Powerful and viewless, children of the air.

For there no footstep treads th’ enchanted ground, There not a sound the deep repose pervades, Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, Through the light domes and graceful colonnades.

Far other tones have swell’d those courts along In days romance yet fondly loves to trace The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, The revels, combats of a vanish’d race.

And yet awhile, at Fancy’s potent call, Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold; Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old.

----The sun declines: upon Nevada’s height There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light; Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, And Darro’s wave reflects each passing dye That melts and mingles in th’ empurpled sky. Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour; Hush’d are the winds, and nature seems to sleep In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, Are dyed with tints of glory, only given To the rich evening of a southern heaven-- Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught --Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest The fiery passions of the human breast, Hark! from th’ Alhambra’s towers what stormy sound, Each moment deepening, wildly swells around? Those are no tumults of a festal throng, Not the light zambra[65] nor the choral song: The combat rages--’tis the shout of war, ’Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar. Within the Hall of Lions,[66] where the rays Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze; There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands: There the strife centres--swords around him wave, There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave; While echoing domes return the battle-cry, “Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!” And onward rushing, and prevailing still, Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. But first and bravest of that gallant train, Where foes are mightiest, charging ne’er in vain; In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, His Aben-Zurrahs[67] there young Hamet leads; While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, “Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”

Yes! trace the footsteps of the warrior’s wrath By helm and corslet shatter’d in his path, And by the thickest harvest of the slain, And by the marble’s deepest crimson stain: Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise; And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, And where the ground is reddest--he is there. Yes! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost.

They perish’d--not as heroes should have died, On the red field, in victory’s hour of pride, In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, And proudly smiling as the death-pang came: Oh! had they _thus_ expired, a warrior’s tear Had flow’d, almost in triumph, o’er their bier. For thus alone the brave should weep for those Who brightly pass in glory to repose. --Not such their fate: a tyrant’s stern command Doom’d them to fall by some ignoble hand, As, with the flower of all their high-born race, Summon’d Abdallah’s royal feast to grace, Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, They sought the banquet’s gilded hall--to die. Betray’d, unarm’d, they fell--the fountain wave Flow’d crimson with the life-blood of the brave, Till far the fearful tidings of their fate Through the wide city rang from gate to gate, And of that lineage each surviving son Rush’d to the scene where vengeance might be won.

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, Leader of battle, prodigal of life, Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more, Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o’er.

But lo! descending o’er the darken’d hall, The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall, Nor yet the strife hath ceased--though scarce they know, Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe; Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.

Where lurks Abdallah?--midst his yielding train They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. He lies not number’d with the valiant dead, His champions round him have not vainly bled; But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, And his last warriors found each effort fail, In wild despair he fled--a trusted few, Kindred in crime, are still in danger true; And o’er the scene of many a martial deed, The Vega’s[68] green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. He pass’d th’ Alhambra’s calm and lovely bowers, Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers In dew and starlight--there, from grot and cave, Gush’d in wild music many a sparkling wave; There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose, And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.

But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course Of him who flies from terror or remorse! A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves; Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise, Wild notes of nature’s vesper-melodies; Marks not how lovely, on the mountain’s head, Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread; But urges onward, till his weary band, Worn with their toil, a moment’s pause demand. He stops, and turning, on Granada’s fanes In silence gazing, fix’d awhile remains In stern, deep silence: o’er his feverish brow, And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar, Sounds indistinctly fearful--as of war. What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high, O’er the blue clearness of the starry sky? Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, Seen midst the redness of the desert storm, Magnificently dread--above, below, Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow. Lo! from the Alhambra’s towers the vivid glare Streams through the still transparence of the air! Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire; And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, From dim perspective start to ruddy light.

Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah’s soul, The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly For life--such life as makes it bliss to die! On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal’d Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. Thither his steps are bent--yet oft he turns, Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. But paler grow the sinking flames at last, Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past; And spiry vapours, rising o’er the scene, Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. And now his feet have reach’d that lonely pile, Where grief and terror may repose awhile; Embower’d it stands, midst wood and cliff on high, Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh: He hails the scene where every care should cease, And all--except the heart he brings--is peace.

There is deep stillness in those halls of state Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late; Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin’s blast Hath o’er the dwellings of the desert pass’d.[70] Fearful the calm--nor voice, nor step, nor breath Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, Save the wild gush of waters--murmuring round In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone, Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. O’er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread In mingled fragments--glittering to the light Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, And smile in placid beauty o’er the dead: O’er features where the fiery spirit’s trace E’en death itself is powerless to efface; O’er those who flush’d with ardent youth awoke, When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke, Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep; In the low silent house, the narrow spot, Home of forgetfulness--and soon forgot.

But slowly fade the stars--the night is o’er-- Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; Slumberers who ne’er shall wake on earth again, Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. Yet smiles the day--oh! not for mortal tear Doth nature deviate from her calm career: Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. O’er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, O’er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows; Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, And skies arch cloudless o’er a world of woe; And flowers renew’d in spring’s green pathway bloom, Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.

Within Granada’s walls the funeral rite Attends that day of loveliness and light; And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, Is gather’d to the brave of other years: And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade His martyr’d brother and his sire are laid, Feels every deep resolve and burning thought Of ampler vengeance e’en to passion wrought; Yet is the hour afar--and he must brood O’er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. Tumult and rage are hush’d--another day In still solemnity hath pass’d away, In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, The calm that follows in the tempest’s path.

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, His ravaged city traversing again. No sound of gladness his approach precedes, No splendid pageant the procession leads; Where’er he moves the silent streets along, Broods a stern quiet o’er the sullen throng. No voice is heard; but in each alter’d eye, Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, And in each look of those whose love hath fled From all on earth to slumber with the dead, Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown On the bleak wilderness of life alone-- In youth’s quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage, And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age, May well be read a dark and fearful tale Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil, And passion like the hush’d volcano’s power, That waits in stillness its appointed hour.

No more the clarion from Granada’s walls, Heard o’er the Vega, to the tourney calls; No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, Bend o’er the lists the darkly-radiant eye: Silence and gloom her palaces o’erspread, And song is hush’d, and pageantry is fled. --Weep, fated city! o’er thy heroes weep-- Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep! Furl’d are their banners in the lonely hall, Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall, Wildly their chargers range the pastures o’er-- Their voice in battle shall be heard no more. And they, who still thy tyrant’s wrath survive, Whom he hath wrong’d too deeply to forgive, That race of lineage high, of worth approved, The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved-- Thine Aben-Zurrahs--they no more shall wield In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield: Condemn’d to bid the cherish’d scenes farewell Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, And far o’er foreign plains as exiles roam, Their land the desert, and the grave their home. Yet there is one shall see that race depart In deep though silent agony of heart: One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone, Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown, And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear That smile in which the spirit hath no share-- Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow O’er the cold solitude of Alpine snow.

Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour, And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. That name in vain stern reason would efface: Hamet! ’tis thine, thou foe to all her race!

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove The sleepless pangs of unrequited love-- Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume, And make the heart of all delight the tomb, Check the free spirit in its eagle flight, And the spring-morn of early genius blight: Not such her grief--though now she wakes to weep, While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.[71]

A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray’d-- Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot, Scene of past hours that ne’er may be forgot? ’Tis he--but changed that eye, whose glance of fire Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire, As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught, It spoke of glory to the inmost thought: Thence the bright spirit’s eloquence hath fled, And in its wild expression may be read Stem thoughts and fierce resolves--now veil’d in shade, And now in characters of fire portray’d. Changed e’en his voice--as thus its mournful tone Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own.

“Zayda! my doom is fix’d--another day And the wrong’d exile shall be far away; Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, His home of youth, and, more than all--from thee. Oh! what a cloud hath gather’d o’er my lot Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot! Lovely as then the soft and silent hour, And not a rose hath faded from thy bower; But I--my hopes the tempest hath o’erthrown, And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise! Heroic visions of my early days! In me the glories of my race must end-- The exile hath no country to defend! E’en in life’s morn my dreams of pride are o’er, Youth’s buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, And one wild feeling in my alter’d breast Broods darkly o’er the ruins of the rest. Yet fear not thou--to thee, in good or ill, The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still! But when my steps are distant, and my name Thou hear’st no longer in the song of fame; When Time steals on, in silence to efface Of early love each pure and sacred trace, Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem But as the moonlight pictures of a dream,-- Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth And all the fervour of affection’s youth? If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play In lonely beauty o’er thy wanderer’s way.”

“Ask not if such my love! Oh! trust the mind To grief so long, so silently resign’d! Let the light spirit, ne’er by sorrow taught The pure and lofty constancy of thought, Its fleeting trials eager to forget, Rise with elastic power o’er each regret! Foster’d in tears, _our_ young affection grew, And I have learn’d to suffer and be true. Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower, Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower; No! ’tis the child of tempests, and defies, And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies! Too well I feel, with grief’s prophetic heart, That ne’er to meet in happier days we part. We part! and e’en this agonising hour, When love first feels his own o’erwhelming power, Shall soon to memory’s fix’d and tearful eye Seem almost happiness--for thou wert nigh! Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, As days to days all wearily succeed, When doom’d to weep in loneliness, ’twill be Almost like rapture to have wept with thee!

“But thou, my Hamet! thou canst yet bestow All that of joy my blighted lot can know. Oh! be thou still the high-soul’d and the brave, To whom my first and fondest vows I gave; In thy proud fame’s untarnish’d beauty still The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. So shall it soothe me, midst my heart’s despair, To hold undimm’d one glorious image there!”

“Zayda, my best-beloved! my words too well, Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel; Yet must my soul to thee unveil’d be shown, And all its dreams and all its passions known. Thou shalt not be deceived--for pure as heaven Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. I said my heart was changed--and would thy thought Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, Crush’d by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains; And such that heart where desolation’s hand Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand! But Vengeance, fix’d upon her burning throne, Sits midst the wreck in silence and alone; And I, in stem devotion at her shrine, Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control, Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul; They, the betray’d, the sacrificed, the brave, Who fill a blood-stain’d and untimely grave, Must be avenged! and pity and remorse In that stem cause are banish’d from my course. Zayda! thou tremblest--and thy gentle breast Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest; Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour, Pass brightly o’er my soul with softening power, And, oft recall’d, thy voice beguile my lot, Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne’er forgot.

“But the night wanes--the hours too swiftly fly, The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh; Yet, loved one! weep not thus--in joy or pain, Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again! Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!”

Is the voice hush’d, whose loved expressive tone Thrill’d to her heart--and doth she weep alone? Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o’er, When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more? The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, Showering the dewy rose-leaves o’er her hair; But ne’er for her shall dwell reviving power In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, To wake once more that calm serene delight, The soul’s young bloom, which passion’s breath could blight-- The smiling stillness of life’s morning hour, Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade, In the rich foliage of the South array’d, Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave On high o’er many an Aben-Zurrah’s grave. Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, To canopy the dead; nor wanting there Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, Nor wood-bird’s note, nor fall of plaintive stream-- Wild music, soothing to the mourner’s dream. There sleep the chiefs of old--their combats o’er, The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. Unheard by them th’ awakening clarion blows; The sons of war at length in peace repose. No martial note is in the gale that sighs Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom-- As, in his native vale, some shepherd’s tomb.

There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread Dark o’er that silent valley of the dead; Where two fair pillars rise, embower’d and lone, Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o’ergrown, Young Hamet kneels--while thus his vows are pour’d, The fearful vows that consecrate his sword: --“Spirit of him who first within my mind Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined, And taught my steps the line of light to trace Left by the glorious fathers of my race, Hear thou my voice!--for thine is with me still, In every dream its tones my bosom thrill, In the deep calm of midnight they are near, Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, Still murmuring ‘vengeance!’--nor in vain the call, Few, few shall triumph in a hero’s fall! Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, Within my heart there lives one only aim; There, till th’ oppressor for thy fate atone, Concentring every thought, it reigns alone. I will not weep--revenge, not grief, must be, And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee; But the dark hour of stern delight will come, And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb.

“Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass’d away, Without thy fame, in life’s fair dawning day. Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine In the proud annals of thy lofty line; Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays That hold communion with the after-days. Yet, by the wreaths thou might’st have nobly won, Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun; By glory lost, I swear! by hope betray’d, Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid: War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, And to avenge thy death devote my life.

“Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain! Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain! At noon, at midnight, still around me bide, Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died!”

[65] Zambra, a Moorish dance.

[66] The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and was so called from twelve sculptured lions which supported an alabaster basin in the centre.

[67] Aben-Zurrahs: the name thus written is taken from the translation of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of Bourgoanne’s Travels through Spain.

[68] The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent

## actions between the Moors and Christians.

[69] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 68 footnote 3. An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.--See Bruce’s _Travels_.

[70] Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the following account in Volney’s Travels:--“These winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal.”

[71] “Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber.”--Shakspeare.

## CANTO II.

----“Oh! ben provvide il Cielo Ch’ Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia.”

Alfieri.

Fair land! of chivalry the old domain, Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain! Though not for thee with classic shores to vie In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye; Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought; Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows, Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose. No sound of battle swells on Douro’s shore, And banners wave on Ebro’s banks no more. But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead? Blest be that soil! where England’s heroes share The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there; Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days-- By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among. How oft those rocks have echo’d to the tale Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles’ vale; Of him, renown’d in old heroic lore, First of the brave, the gallant Campeador; Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died When Rio Verde roll’d a crimson tide; Or that high name, by Garcilaso’s might On the Green Vega won in single fight.[72]

Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, O’er that Green Vega rose the din of war. At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone O’er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone; On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, Tents rose around, and banners glanced above; And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright With gold, reflecting every tint of light, And many a floating plume and blazon’d shield Diffused romantic splendour o’er the field.

There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart: The clang of echoing steel, the charger’s neigh, The measured tread of hosts in war’s array; And, oh! that music, whose exulting breath Speaks but of glory on the road to death; In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power To wake the stormy joy of danger’s hour; To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain, Rouse from despondence, and support in pain; And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife, Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.

High o’er the camp, in many a broider’d fold, Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold: There, imaged on the cross, _his_ form appears Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears--[73] _His_ form, whose word recall’d the spirit fled, Now borne by hosts to guide them o’er the dead! O’er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore, To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore; Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, They come, the gallant children of Castile; The proud, the calmly dignified:--and there Ebro’s dark sons with haughty mien repair, And those who guide the fiery steed of war From yon rich province of the western star.[74]

But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene, Stern grandeur stamp’d upon thy princely mien; Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,[75] Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes, Why shines _thy_ helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, O son of Afric! midst the sons of Spain? Hast thou with these thy nation’s fall conspired, Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired? How art thou changed! still first in every fight, Hamet the Moor! Castile’s devoted knight! There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, But not the light that shone in days gone by; There is wild ardour in thy look and tone, But not the soul’s expression once thine own, Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway? No eye but Heaven’s may pierce that curtain’d breast, Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress’d.

There hath been combat on the tented plain; The Vega’s turf is red with many a stain; And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield Tell of a fierce and well-contested field. But all is peaceful now: the west is bright With the rich splendour of departing light; Mulhacen’s peak, half lost amidst the sky, Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high, And tints, that mock the pencil’s art, o’erspread Th’ eternal snow that crowns Veleta’s head;[76] While the warm sunset o’er the landscape throws A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, And Hamet wanders from the camp away. In silent musings rapt:--the slaughter’d brave Lie thickly strewn by Darro’s rippling wave. Soft fall the dews--but other drops have dyed The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, The wounded sought a shelter--and expired.[77] Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, By the bright windings of the stream he strays, Till, more remote from battle’s ravaged scene, All is repose and solitude serene. There, ’neath an olive’s ancient shade reclined, Whose rustling foliage waves in evening’s wind, The harass’d warrior, yielding to the power, The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour, Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm Shed o’er his troubled soul unwonted balm; His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, The past, the future, are awhile forgot; And Hope, scarce own’d, yet stealing o’er his breast, Half dares to whisper, “Thou shalt yet be blest!”

Such his vague musings--but a plaintive sound Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round; A low, halt-stifled moan, that seems to rise From life and death’s contending agonies. He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade? --A youthful warrior on his deathbed laid. All rent and stain’d his broider’d Moorish vest, The corslet shatter’d on his bleeding breast; In his cold hand the broken falchion strain’d, With life’s last force convulsively retain’d; His plumage soil’d with dust, with crimson dyed, And the red lance in fragments by his side: He lies forsaken--pillow’d on his shield, His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal’d. Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish’d now The light once throned on that commanding brow; And o’er that fading eye, still upward cast, The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene Sheds the pale olive’s waving boughs between, Too well can Hamet’s conscious heart retrace, Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face, Whose every feature to his soul conveys Some bitter thought of long-departed days.

“Oh! is it thus,” he cries, “we meet at last? Friend of my soul in years for ever past! Hath fate but led me hither to behold The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold,-- Receive thy latest agonising breath, And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death? Yet let me bear thee hence--while life remains, E’en though thus feebly circling through thy veins, Some healing balm thy sense may still revive; Hope is not lost--and Osmyn yet may live! And blest were he whose timely care should save A heart so noble, e’en from glory’s grave.”

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed The dying warrior faintly lifts his head; O’er Hamet’s mien, with vague uncertain gaze, His doubtful glance awhile bewilder’d strays; Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain Lights up those features late convulsed with pain; A quivering radiance flashes from his eye, That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die; And the mind’s grandeur, in its parting hour, Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.

“Away!” he cries, in accents of command, And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand. “Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free-- E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee. ’Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes Of him who faithful to his country dies; Not for _thy_ hand to raise the drooping head Of him who sinks to rest on glory’s bed. Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o’er, And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar: Be thine existence with a blighted name, Mine the bright death which seals a warrior’s fame!”

The glow hath vanish’d from his cheek--his eye Hath lost that beam of parting energy; Frozen and fix’d it seems--his brow is chill; One struggle more--that noble heart is still. Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes, Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose, More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart? _Thy_ pangs were transient; _his_ shall sleep no more, Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er; But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought In the high spirit and unbending thought! Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride; While his soul rises, gathering all its force, To meet the fearful conflict with remorse.

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene; Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies; Thou still art faithful to affection’s ties. Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem; And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice.

Within Granada’s walls are hearts and hands Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands; Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour, To win his silent way to Zayda’s bower, When night and peace are brooding o’er the world, When mute the clarions, and the banners furl’d. That hour is come--and, o’er the arms he bears, A wandering fakir’s garb the chieftain wears: Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide The lofty port, and glance of martial pride; But night befriends--through paths obscure he pass’d, And hail’d the lone and lovely scene at last; Young Zayda’s chosen haunt, the fair alcove, The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove: Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, As form’d alone for happy hearts to meet. For happy hearts!--not such as hers, who there Bends o’er her lute with dark unbraided hair; That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, Tell that despair her bosom’s guest hath been. So lost in thought she seems, the warrior’s feet Unheard approach her solitary seat, Till his known accents every sense restore-- “My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?” She starts, she turns--the lightning of surprise, Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes; But that is fleeting--it is past--and how Far other meaning darkens o’er her brow: Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe-- “Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!” “Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own? What mean those words, and that unwonted tone? I will not deem thee changed--but in thy face, It is not joy, it is not love, I trace! It was not thus in other days we met: Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget? Oh! speak once more--these rising doubts dispel: One smile of tenderness, and all is well!”

“Not thus we met in other days!--oh, no! Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe! Those days are past--we ne’er shall meet again With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. But _thy_ dark soul no gentler feelings sway, Leader of hostile bands! away, away! On in thy path of triumph and of power, Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower.”

“And _thou_, too, changed! thine earthly vow forgot! This, this alone, was wanting to my lot! Exiled and scorn’d, of every tie bereft, Thy love, the desert’s lonely fount, was left; And thou, my soul’s last hope, its lingering beam, Thou! the good angel of each brighter dream, Wert all the barrenness of life possest To wake one soft affection in my breast! That vision ended--fate hath nought in store Of joy or sorrow e’er to touch me more. Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly, From the stem pupil of adversity! And now to hope, to confidence, adieu! If thou art faithless, who shall e’er be true?”

“Hamet! oh, wrong me not!--I too could speak Of sorrows--trace them on my faded cheek, In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form, That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm! But words were idle--read my sufferings there, Where grief is stamp’d on all that once was fair.

“Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d, All that thy mien express’d, thy spirit seem’d, My love had been devotion!--till in death Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. But not the chief who leads a lawless band To crush the altars of his native land; Th’ apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race; Not _him_ I loved--but one whose youthful name Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud, I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief In its own loftiness had found relief; A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last, When every meaner woe had long been past. Yes! let affection weep--no common tear She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier. Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this, To pangs that rend _my_ bosom, had been bliss!”

“High-minded maid! the time admits not now To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall, Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall. Yet this believe--no meaner aim inspires My soul, no dream of power ambition fires. No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, Behold me but th’ avenger of the dead! One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows, And in thy love alone hath sought repose. Zayda! wilt _thou_ his stern accuser be? False to his country, he is true to thee! Oh, hear me yet!--if Hamet e’er was dear, By our first vows, our young affection, hear! Soon must this fair and royal city fall, Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall; Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe? Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far From horrors thronging in the path of war: Fly, and repose in safety--till the blast Hath made a desert in its course--and pass’d!”

“Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come Hasten’d by thee, to seal thy country’s doom, With _thee_ from scenes of death shall Zayda fly To peace and safety?--Woman, too, can die! And die exulting, though unknown to fame, In all the stainless beauty of her name! Be mine, unmurmuring, undismay’d, to share The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail, When the clouds gather and the blasts assail. Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour Call’d into life my spirit’s latent power; But I have energies that idly slept, While withering o’er my silent woes I wept; And now, when hope and happiness are fled, My soul is firm--for what remains to dread? Who shall have power to suffer and to bear If strength and courage dwell not with Despair?

“Hamet! farewell--retrace thy path again, To join thy brethren on the tented plain. There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell! Yes! on that soil hath Glory’s footstep been, Names unforgotten consecrate the scene! Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, Whose voices call thee in the whispering air? Unheard, in vain they call--their fallen son Hath stain’d the name those mighty spirits won, And to the hatred of the brave and free Bequeath’d his own through ages yet to be!”

Still as she spoke, th’ enthusiast’s kindling eye Was lighted up with inborn majesty, While her fair form and youthful features caught All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, Severely beauteous.[78] Awe-struck and amazed, In silent trance a while the warrior gazed, As on some lofty vision--for she seem’d One all-inspired--each look with glory beam’d, While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes, Her soul at once in all its light arose. Oh! ne’er had Hamet deem’d there dwelt enshrined In form so fragile that unconquer’d mind; And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there He stood--till wonder yielded to despair.

“The dream is vanish’d--daughter of my foes! Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot! Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid! In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d, Farewell, and be thou blest!--all words were vain From him who ne’er may view that form again-- Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be, He _hath_ been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!”

And is the warrior gone?--doth Zayda hear His parting footstep, and without a tear? Thou weep’st not, lofty maid!--yet who can tell What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell? _They_ feel not least, the firm, the high in soul, Who best each feeling’s agony control. Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief Which finds in misery’s eloquence relief; But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow? The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, Scorning itself that thus it _could_ be moved? He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, Views all its weakness, pities all its throes; He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, Beholding anguish--all unknown to them.

Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains, In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies; While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave, Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave: Mourn, for thy doom is fixed--the days of fear, Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near! Within, around thee, are the trophied graves Of kings and chiefs--their children shall be slaves. Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell, But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell; For midst thy councils discord still presides, Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides-- Last of a line whose regal spirit flown Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne, Without one generous thought, or feeling high, To teach his soul how kings should live and die.

A voice resounds within Granada’s wall, The hearts of warriors echo to its call.[80] Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught To reach the source of pure exalted thought?

See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand, A form, majestic as a prophet, stand! His mien is all impassion’d, and his eye Fill’d with a light whose fountain is on high; Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow, And inspiration beams upon his brow; While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze, As on some mighty seer of elder days.

“Saw ye the banners of Castile display’d, The helmets glittering, and the line array’d? Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?” he cries; “Children of conquerors! in your strength arise! O high-born tribes! O names unstain’d by fear! Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear![81] Be every feud forgotten, and your hands Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.[82] Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come, And the red sabre must decide your doom. Where is that spirit which prevail’d of yore, When Tarik’s bands o’erspread the western shore?[83] When the long combat raged on Xeres’ plain,[84] And Afric’s tecbir swell’d through yielding Spain?[85] Is the lance broken, is the shield decay’d, The warrior’s arm unstrung, his heart dismay’d? Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth? To guard the regions where our fathers’ blood Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood; Where long their dust hath blended with the soil Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil?

“O ye sierras of eternal snow! Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain! ye saw their might In many a fierce and unforgotten fight-- Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race Dwell midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace With each memorial of the past around, Each mighty monument of days renown’d? May this indignant heart ere then be cold, This frame be gather’d to its kindred mould! And the last life-drop circling through my veins Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains!

“And yet one struggle ere our doom is seal’d, One mighty effort, one deciding field! If vain each hope, we still have choice to be In life the fetter’d, or in death the free!”

Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats high, And ardour flashes from each kindling eye; Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught The glow of lofty hope and daring thought; And all is hush’d around--as every sense Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence.

But when his voice hath ceased, th’ impetuous cry Of eager thousands bursts at once on high; Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around, And fair Alhambra’s inmost halls resound. “Lead us, O chieftain! lead us to the strife, To fame in death, or liberty in life!” O zeal of noble hearts! in vain display’d! Now, while the burning spirit of the brave Is roused to energies that yet might save-- E’en now, enthusiasts! while ye rush to claim Your glorious trial on the field of fame, Your king hath yielded! Valour’s dream is o’er;[86] Power, wealth, and freedom are your own no more; And for your children’s portion, but remains That bitter heritage--the stranger’s chains.

[72] Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single combat (in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the Vega of Granada.

[73] “El Rey D. Fernando bolviò à la Vega, y pusò su Real à la vista de Huecar, a veyute y seys dias del mes de Abril, adonde fuè fortificado de todo lo necessario; poniendo el Christiano toda su gente en esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y su Real Estandarte, el qual llevava por divisa un Christo crucificado.”--_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada._

[74] Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening or the west; in a word, the _Hesperia_ of the Greeks.--See Casiri’s _Bibliot. Arabico-Hispana_, and Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c.

[75] “Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea azul y blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata, las plumas de la misma color; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que desquixalavan leones, y otros un mundo que lo deshazia un selvage con un baston.”--_Guerras Civiles de Granada._

[76] The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those called Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta.

[77] It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that the dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to the shelter which may be afforded by any bush or thicket on the field.

[78] “Severe in youthful beauty.”--Milton.

[79] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 76 footnote 2. Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. The Xenil runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry with its stream small

## particles of gold, and the Xenil of silver. When Charles V. came to

Granada with the Empress Isabella, the city presented him with a crown made of gold, which had been collected from the Darro.--See Bourgoanne’s and other Travels.

[80] “At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were sunk in indolence, one of those men whose natural and impassioned eloquence has sometimes aroused a people to deeds of heroism, raised his voice in the midst of the city, and awakened the inhabitants from their lethargy. Twenty thousand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were prepared to sally forth, with the fury of desperation, to attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his subjects than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and made terms with the Christians, by which it was agreed that the Moors should be allowed the free exercise of their religion and laws; should be permitted, if they thought proper, to depart unmolested with their effects to Africa; and that he himself, if he remained in Spain, should retain an extensive estate, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equivalent in money if he preferred retiring to Barbary.”--See Jacob’s _Travel in Spain_.

[81] Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the Moors of Granada, all of high distinction.

[82] The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the civil dissensions which at this period prevailed in the city. Several of the Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, were fully prepared for submission to the Spaniards; others had embraced the cause of Muley el Zagal, the uncle and competitor for the throne of Abdallah, (or Abo Abdeli,) and all was jealousy and animosity.

[83] Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moors into Spain. “The Saracens landed at the pillar or point of Europe. The corrupt and familiar appellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) describes the mountain of Tarik; and the intrenchments of his camp were the first outline of those fortifications which, in the hands of our countrymen, have resisted the art and power of the house of Bourbon. The adjacent governors informed the court of Toledo of the descent and progress of the Arabs; and the defeat of his lieutenant Edeco, who had been commanded to seize and bind the presumptuous strangers, first admonished Roderic of the magnitude of the danger. At the royal summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and nobles of the Gothic monarchy, assembled at the head of their followers; and the title of king of the Romans, which is employed by an Arabic historian, may be excused by the close affinity of language, religion, and manners, between the nations of Spain.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. ix. p. 472, 473.

[84] “In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has been illustrated by the encounter which determined the fate of the kingdom; the stream of the Guadalete, which falls into the bay, divided the two camps, and marked the advancing and retreating skirmishes of three successive days. On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more serious and decisive issue. Notwithstanding the valour of the Saracens, they fainted under the weight of multitudes, and the plain of Xeres was overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead bodies.--‘My brethren,’ said Tarik to his surviving companions, ‘the enemy is before you, the sea is behind; whither would ye fly? Follow your general; I am resolved either to lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of the Romans.’ Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of Count Julian with the sons and the brother of Witiza. The two princes, and the Archbishop of Toledo, occupied the most important post: their well-timed defection broke the ranks of the Christians; each warrior was prompted by fear or suspicion to consult his personal safety; and the remains of the Gothic army were scattered or destroyed in the flight and pursuit of the three following days.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. ix. p. 473, 474.

[85] The _tecbir_, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in battle.

## CANTO III.

“Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto.” Hippolito Pindemonte.

Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield, Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field; Ye that around the oaken cross of yore[87] Stood firm and fearless on Asturia’s shore, And with your spirit, ne’er to be subdued, Hallow’d the wild Cantabrian solitude; Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, In the last chastening of your Moslem foes! Rejoice!--for Spain, arising in her strength, Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length, And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain, And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. And thou, the warrior _born in happy hour_,[88] Valencia’s lord, whose name alone was power, Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, Conqueror of kings! exult, O Cid! on high; For still ’twas thine to guard thy country’s weal, In life, in death, the watcher for Castile!

Thou, in that hour when Mauritania’s bands Rush’d from their palmy groves and burning lands, E’en in the realm of spirits didst retain A patriot’s vigilance, remembering Spain![89] Then at deep midnight rose the mighty sound, By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound, As through her echoing streets, in dread array, Beings once mortal held their viewless way-- Voices from worlds we know not--and the tread Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead, Thou and thy buried chieftains: from the grave Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, And join thy warriors with unearthly might To aid the rescue in Tolosa’s fight. Those days are past--the crescent on thy shore, O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.[90] What banner streams afar from Vela’s tower?[91] The cross, bright ensign of Iberia’s power! What the glad shout of each exulting voice? “Castile and Aragon! rejoice, rejoice!” Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, And Spain’s proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance, Through her long streets in knightly garb advance.

Oh! ne’er in lofty dreams hath Fancy’s eye Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, At joust or tourney, theme of poet’s lore, High masque or solemn festival of yore. The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise O’erarch’d by cloudless and cerulean skies; Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers: And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, With helmets glittering as they move along, With broider’d scarf and gem-bestudded mail, And graceful plumage streaming on the gale; Shields, gold-emboss’d, and pennons floating far, And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues That southern suns o’er heaven and earth diffuse-- Blend in one scene of glory, form’d to throw O’er memory’s page a never-fading glow, And there, too, foremost midst the conquering brave, Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave. There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court; Calm, stern, collected--yet within his breast Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess’d? If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer’s mien.

Hear’st thou the solemn yet exulting sound Of the deep anthem floating far around? The choral voices, to the skies that raise The full majestic harmony of praise? Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train, They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, Borne on their trophied car--lo! bursting thence A blaze of chivalrous magnificence!

Onward their slow and stately course they bend To where th’ Alhambra’s ancient towers ascend, Rear’d and adorn’d by Moorish kings of yore, Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more.

They reach those towers--irregularly vast And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast:[92] They enter--to their wondering sight is given A genii palace--an Arabian heaven![93] A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, Its forms and colour seem alike of air. Here, by sweet orange-boughs half shaded o’er, The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor, Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues The calm transparence of its wave suffuse. There round the court, where Moorish arches bend, Aërial columns, richly deck’d, ascend; Unlike the models of each classic race, Of Doric grandeur or Corinthian grace, But answering well each vision that portrays Arabian splendour to the poet’s gaze: Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all--a mingling glow Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below; Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins Of precious marble, and the vivid stains Of rich mosaics o’er the light arcade, In gay festoons and fairy knots display’d. On through th’ enchanted realm, that only seems Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams, The royal conquerors pass--while still their sight On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, O’er bowery terraces and myrtle shades; Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high The vast sierra mingling with the sky. There, scattering far around their diamond spray, Clear streams from founts of alabaster play, Through pillar’d halls, where, exquisitely wrought, Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene A wild, romantic, oriental mien: While many a verse, from eastern bards of old, Borders the walls in characters of gold.[94] Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood, And all be lone--a splendid solitude. Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, From mingling voices of exulting throngs; Tambour and flute, and atabal are there,[95] And joyous clarions pealing on the air; While every hall resounds, “Granada won! Granada! for Castile and Aragon!”[96]

’Tis night--from dome and tower, in dazzling maze, The festal lamps innumerably blaze;[97] Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams, From every lattice tremulously streams, Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil; Red flame the torches on each minaret’s height, And shines each street an avenue of light; And midnight feasts are held, and music’s voice Through the long night still summons to rejoice.

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry, Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, Gall’d by the chain, though deck’d awhile with flowers; Stern passions working in th’ indignant breast, Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpress’d, Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet-- Vengeance and keen remorse, and vain regret.

From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, Who lingering gazes o’er the lovely scene, Anguish and shame contending in his mien He who of heroes and of kings the son, Hath lived to lose whate’er his fathers won; Whose doubts and fears his people’s fate have seal’d, Wavering alike in council and in field; Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave.

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, To Afric’s wilds the royal exile flies;[98] Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain O’er all he never must behold again. Fair spreads the scene around--for him _too_ fair, Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. The Vega’s meads, the city’s glittering spires, The old majestic palace of his sires, The gay pavilions and retired alcoves, Bosom’d in citron and pomegranate groves; Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light, All in one moment bursting on his sight, Speak to his soul of glory’s vanish’d years, And wake the source of unavailing tears. --Weep’st thou, Abdallah?--Thou dost well to weep, O feeble heart! o’er all thou couldst not keep! Well do a woman’s tears befit the eye Of him who knew not as a man to die.[99]

The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda’s bower, The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. No voice, no step, is in her father’s halls, Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; No stranger enters at the chieftain’s gate, But all is hush’d, and void, and desolate.

There, through each tower and solitary shade, In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid: Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown; And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows The stream whose music lull’d her to repose.

But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought Whispers ’twas _he_ that desolation wrought; He who his country and his faith betray’d, And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid; A voice of sorrow swells in every gale, Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale: And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, In wild exuberance rustle to the wind, Each leaf hath language to his startled sense, And seems to murmur--“Thou hast driven her hence!” And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, --Where hath lost love been once recall’d again? In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn, His name can rouse no feeling now--but scorn. O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart Wakes to behold the void within--and start! To feel its own abandonment, and brood O’er the chill bosom’s depth of solitude. The stormy passions that in Hamet’s breast Have sway’d so long, so fiercely, are at rest; The avenger’s task is closed:[100]--he finds too late It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. He was a lofty spirit, turn’d aside From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride, And onward, in its new tumultuous course, Borne with too rapid and intense a force To pause one moment in the dread career, And ask if such could be its native sphere. Now are those days of wild delirium o’er, Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more; The feverish energies of passion close, And his heart sinks in desolate repose, Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less From its own deep and utter loneliness.

There is a sound of voices on the air, A flash of armour to the sunbeam’s glare, Midst the wild Alpuxarras;[101]--there, on high, Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky, A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke, Have fled indignant from the Spaniard’s yoke.

O ye dread scenes! where nature dwells alone, Severely glorious on her craggy throne; Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, Veil’d by the mists and girdled by the storms,-- Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves, That hold communion with the torrent-waves; And ye, th’ unstain’d and everlasting snows, That dwell above in bright and still repose; To you, in every clime, in every age, Far from the tyrant’s or the conqueror’s rage, Hath Freedom led her sons--untired to keep Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. She, like the mountain-eagle, still delights To gaze exulting from unconquer’d heights, And build her eyrie in defiance proud, To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud.

Now her deep voice, the soul’s awakener, swells, Wild Alpuxarras! through your inmost dells. There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, As at the clarion’s call, her children throng. She with enduring strength has nerved each frame, And made each heart the temple of her flame, Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow Unquenchably, surviving all below.

There high-born maids, that moved upon the earth More like bright creatures of aërial birth, Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear, All undismay’d, privation and distress, And smile the roses of the wilderness: And mothers with their infants, there to dwell In the deep forest or the cavern cell, And rear their offspring midst the rocks, to be, If now no more the mighty, still the free.

And midst that band are veterans, o’er whose head Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed: They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, O royal city! and the wreck of all They loved and hallow’d most:--doth aught remain For these to prove of happiness or pain? Life’s cup is drain’d--earth fades before their eye; Their task is closing--they have but to die. Ask ye why fled they hither?--that their doom Might be, to sink unfetter’d to the tomb. And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there, And buoyancy of spirit, form’d to dare And suffer all things--fall’n on evil days, Yet darting o’er the world an ardent gaze, As on the arena where its powers may find Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold, The high in heart, unconquer’d, uncontroll’d: By day, the huntsmen of the wild--by night, Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire’s light, They from their bleak majestic home have caught A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, While all around them bids the soul arise To blend with nature’s dread sublimities. --But these are lofty dreams, and must not be Where tyranny is near:--the bended knee, The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down On regal conquerors, and defy their frown. What warrior-band is toiling to explore The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow’d o’er, Startling with martial sounds each rude recess, Where the deep echo slept in loneliness? These are the sons of Spain!--Your foes are near, O exiles of the wild sierra! hear! Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves Pour like the torrent in its might of waves!

Who leads the invaders on?--his features bear The deep-worn traces of a calm despair; Yet his dark brow is haughty--and his eye Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. ’Tis he! ’tis he again! the apostate chief; He comes in all the sternness of his grief. He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field, Against his country’s children though he leads Castilian bands again to hostile deeds: His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die. So shall remorse and love the heart release, Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. The mountain-echoes are awake--a sound Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. Within the steep defile that winds between Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, Whose bright transparence ne’er was stain’d till then; While swell the war-note and the clash of spears To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait In dread suspense the tidings of their fate. But he--whose spirit, panting for its rest, Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast-- Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance Aim’d at another’s breast, would still advance-- Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by, As if for him ’twere bliss too great to die. Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes Reserved for thee ere nature’s last repose; Thou know’st not yet what vengeance fate can wreak, Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell The sons of battle in that narrow dell; Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass’d, And age, the weary, found repose at last; Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, Borne down by numbers and o’erpower’d by toil. Dispersed, dishearten’d, through the pass they fly, Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high; While Hamet’s band in wonder gaze, nor dare Track o’er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair.

Yet he, to whom each danger hath become A dark delight, and every wild a home, Still urges onward--undismay’d to tread Where life’s fond lovers would recoil with dread. But fear is’ for the happy--_they_ may shrink From the steep precipice or torrent’s brink; They to whom earth is paradise--their doom Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb: Not such his lot, who, school’d by fate severe, Were but too blest if aught remain’d to fear.[102] Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw Eternal shadows o’er the glen below; And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray Half in a mist of radiance veils its way, He holds his venturous track:--supported now By some o’erhanging pine or ilex bough; Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell. Now hath his footstep gain’d the summit’s head, A level span, with emerald verdure spread, A fairy circle--there the heath-flowers rise, And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies; And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side: But all is wild beyond--and Hamet’s eye Roves o’er a world of rude sublimity. That dell beneath, where e’en at noon of day Earth’s charter’d guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray; Around, untrodden woods; and far above, Where mortal footstep ne’er may hope to rove, Bare granite cliffs, whose fix’d, inherent dyes Rival the tints that float o’er summer skies:[103] And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, That seems a part of heaven’s eternity.

There is no track of man where Hamet stands, Pathless the scene as Lybia’s desert sands; Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard Of distant voices, and the gathering-word Of Islam’s tribes, now faint and fainter grown, Now but the lingering echo of a tone.

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, He follows, reckless if his bands are near. On by the rushing stream his way he bends, And through the mountain’s forest zone ascends; Piercing the still and solitary shades Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, Eternal twilight’s reign:--those mazes past, The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, And the lone wanderer now hath reach’d the source Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. But there he pauses--for the lonely scene Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, And, mingled oft with some wild eagle’s cry, From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, So deep the solemn and majestic sound Of forests, and of waters murmuring round-- That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. --What earthly feeling unabash’d can dwell In nature’s mighty presence?--midst the swell Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? These their own grandeur on the soul impress, And bid each passion feel its nothingness.

Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; Shadow’d by giant oaks, and rude and lone, It seems the temple of some power unknown, Where earthly being may not dare intrude To pierce the secrets of the solitude. Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone? Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan? As some loved sound that long from earth had fled, The unforgotten accents of the dead! E’en thus it rose--and springing from his trance His eager footsteps to the sound advance. He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor; Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er He rushes on--and lo! where Zayda rends Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends, Lost in despair;--yet, as a step draws nigh, Disturbing sorrow’s lonely sanctity, She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief, Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief; While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, And every woe forgetting--but the last.

“Com’st thou to weep with me?--for I am left Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain’d bier; His child may call, but he no more shall hear. He sleeps--but never shall those eyes unclose; ’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose; Nor can it break his slumbers.--Dost thou mourn? And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?”

But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name, When, swiftly rushing o’er her spirit, came Each dark remembrance--by affliction’s power Awhile effaced in that o’erwhelming hour, To wake with tenfold strength: ’twas then her eye Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, And o’er her wasted cheek a burning glow Spreads, while her lips’ indignant accents flow.

“Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow’s might Bow’d down my soul, and quench’d its native light-- That I should thus forget! and bid _thy_ tear With mine be mingled o’er a father’s bier! Did he not perish, haply by thy hand, In the last combat with thy ruthless band? The morn beheld that conflict of despair:-- ’Twas then he fell--he fell!--and thou wert there! Thou! who thy country’s children hast pursued To their last refuge midst these mountains rude. Was it for this I loved thee?--Thou hast taught My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought! ’Twill soon be past--I bow to heaven’s decree, Which bade each pang be minister’d by thee.”

“I had not deem’d that aught remain’d below For me to prove of yet untasted woe; But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart One more, one keener agony of heart. Oh, hear me yet!--I would have died to save My foe, but still thy father, from the grave; But in the fierce confusion of the strife, In my own stern despair and scorn of life, Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, Save that to perish there in vain I sought. And let me share thy sorrows!--hadst thou known All I have felt in silence and alone, E’en _thou_ mightst then relent, and deem, at last, A grief like mine might expiate all the past

“But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower, So fondly rear’d in luxury’s guarded bower, From every danger, every storm secured, How hast _thou_ suffer’d! what hast thou endured! Daughter of palaces! and can it be That this bleak desert is a home for thee! These rocks _thy_ dwelling! thou, who shouldst have known Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone! Oh, yet forgive!--be all my guilt forgot, Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!”

“That lot is fix’d--’twere fruitless to repine: Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. I may forgive--but not at will the heart Can bid its dark remembrances depart. No, Hamet! no!--too deeply are these traced; Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced! Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep Her lonely vigils o’er the grave to weep. E’en now, prophetic of my early doom, Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb; And ne’er in vain did hopeless mourner feel That deep foreboding o’er the bosom steal! Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side Of him for whom I lived, and would have died; Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, In pain and peril--I forsook him not.

“And now, farewell!--behold the summer-day Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh, With the last rites his bier to sanctify. Oh, yet in time, away!--’twere not _my_ prayer Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare! This hour they come--and dost thou scorn to fly? Save me that one last pang--to see thee die!” E’en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread; Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. They reach the cave--they enter--slow their pace, And calm deep sadness marks each mourner’s face; And all is hush’d, till he who seems to wait In silent stern devotedness his fate, Hath met their glance--then grief to fury turns: Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns, And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath. Blood must atone for blood, and death for death! They close around him: lofty still his mien, His cheek unalter’d, and his brow serene. Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda’s cry; Fruitless her prayer, unmark’d her agony. But as his foremost foes their weapons bend Against the life he seeks not to defend, Wildly she darts between--each feeling past, Save strong affection, which prevails at last. Oh, not in vain its daring!--for the blow Aim’d at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow; And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast Where in that hour her head may calmly rest, For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band, Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand: While, every thought of hate and vengeance o’er, They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. She, she alone is calm:--a fading smile, Like sunset, passes o’er her cheek the while; And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell Those last faint rays, the parting soul’s farewell.

“Now is the conflict past, and I have proved How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! Yes! in an hour like this ’twere vain to hide The heart so long and so severely tried: Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill’d, But sterner duties call’d--and were fulfill’d. And I am blest!--To every holier tie My life was faithful,--and for thee I die! Nor shall the love so purified be vain; Sever’d on earth, we yet shall meet again. Farewell!--And ye, at Zayda’s dying prayer, Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare! Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.”

Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. One pang--’tis past--her task on earth is done, And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. But he for whom she died--oh! who may paint The grief to which all other woes were faint? There is no power in language to impart The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d: These have no words--nor are by words portray’d.

A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear Far o’er the Alpuxarras;--wild its tone, And rocks and caverns echo, “Thou art gone!”

“Daughter of heroes! thou art gone To share his tomb who gave thee birth: Peace to the lovely spirit flown! It was not form’d for earth. Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, Which brightly pass’d and left no trace.

“But calmly sleep!--for thou art free, And hands unchain’d thy tomb shall raise. Sleep! they are closed at length for thee, Life’s few and evil days! Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, The lingering death of liberty.

“Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom Didst early to the storm resign: We bear it still--and dark _their_ doom Who cannot weep for thine! For us, whose every hope is fled, The time is past to mourn the dead.

“The days have been, when o’er thy bier Far other strains than these had flow’d; Now, as a home from grief and fear, We hail thy dark abode! We, who but linger to bequeath Our sons the choice of chains or death.

“Thou art with those, the free, the brave, The mighty of departed years; And for the slumberers of the grave Our fate hath left no tears. Though loved and lost, to weep were vain For thee, who ne’er shalt weep again.

“Have we not seen despoil’d by foes The land our fathers won of yore? And is there yet a pang for those Who gaze on _this_ no more? Oh, that like them ’twere ours to rest! Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!”

A few short year’s, and in the lonely cave Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet’s grave. Sever’d in life, united in the tomb-- Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom! Their dirge, of woods and waves th’ eternal moan; Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. And oft beside the midnight watch-fire’s blaze, Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days, (When freedom fled, to hold, sequester’d there, The stern and lofty councils of despair,) Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled, Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those Who thus have suffer’d, and who thus repose.

[86] The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of popular feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli’s capitulation. “Aterrado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto y temiendo no ser ya el Dueño de un pueblo amotinádo, se apresuró á concluir una capitulation, la menos dura que podia obtenir en tan urgentes circumstancias, y ofrecio entregor á Granada el dia seis de Enero.”--_Paseos en Granada_, vol. i. p. 298.

[87] The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle.

[88] See Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid, in which that warrior is frequently styled, “he who was born in happy hour.”

[89] “Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from Africa against King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, the mightiest power of the misbelievers that had ever been brought against Spain, since the destruction of the kings of the Goths, the Cid Campeador remembered his country in that great danger; for the night before the battle was fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the night, a mighty sound was heard in the whole city of Leon, as if it were the tramp of a great army passing through; and it passed on to the royal monastery of St Isidro, and there was a great knocking at the gate thereof, and they called to a priest who was keeping vigils in the church, and told him that the captains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, and Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call up King Don Fernando the Great, who lay buried in that church, that he might go with them to deliver Spain. And on the morrow that great battle of the Navas de Tolosa was fought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slain, which was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won over the Moors.”--Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_.

[90] The name of Andalusia, the _region of evening_, or _of the west_, was applied by the Arabs not only to the province so called, but to the whole peninsula.

[91] “En este dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes de la Cruz, de St Jago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se tremoláran sobre la torre mas alta, llamada de _la Vela_; y un exercito prosternado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y reconocimiento, asistio al mas glorioso de los espectaculos.”--_Paseos en Granada_, vol. i. p. 299.

[92] Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by Charles V. in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds: “Adjoining (to the north) stands a huge heap of as ugly buildings as can well be seen, all huddled together, seemingly without the least intention of forming _one_ habitation out of them. The walls are entirely unornamented, all gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a very coarse hand; yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indisputably the most curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps in Europe. In many countries you may see excellent modern as well as ancient architecture, both entire and in ruins; but nothing to be met with any where else can convey an idea of this edifice, except you take it from the decorations of an opera, or the tales of the genii.”--Swinburne’s _Travels through Spain_.

[93] “Passing round the corner of the emperor’s palace, you are admitted at a plain unornamented door in a corner. On my first visit, I confess, I was struck with amazement as I stept over the threshold, to find myself on a sudden transported into a species of fairy land. The first place you come to is the court called the Communa, or _del Mesucar_, that is, the common baths: an oblong square, with a deep basin of clear water in the middle; two flights of marble steps leading down to the bottom; on each side a parterre of flowers, and a row of orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle paved with marble; the arches bear upon very slight pillars, in proportions and style different from all the regular orders of architecture. The ceilings and walls are incrustated with fretwork in stucco, so minute and intricate that the most patient draughtsman would find it difficult to follow it, unless he made himself master of the general plan.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in Spain_.

[94] The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with inscriptions in Arabic characters. “In examining this abode of magnificence,” says Bourgoanne, “the observer is every moment astonished at the new and interesting mixture of architecture and poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may be called a collection of fugitive pieces; and whatever duration these may have, time, with which every thing passes away, has too much contributed to confirm to them that title.”--See Bourgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_.

[95] Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum.

[96] “Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, y encima de la torre de Comares tan famosa se levantò la señal de la Santa Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los dos Christianos reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, à grandes bozes dizieron, ‘Granada! Granada! por su magestad, y por la reyna su muger.’ La serenissima reyna D. Isabel, que viò ia señal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa torre de Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hincò de rodillas, y diò infinitas gracias à Dios por la victoria que le avia dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de la capilla del rey luego à canto de organo cantò _Te Deum laudamus_. Fuè tan grande el plazer que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de belicas trompetas. Los Moros amigos del rey, que querian ser Christianos, cuya cabeza era el valeroso Muça, tomaron mil dulzaynas y añafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atambores por toda la ciudad.”--_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada._

[97] “Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche jugaron galanamente alcancias y cañas. Andava Granada aquella noche con tanta alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que se ardia la terra.”--_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada._

Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in the years 1775 and 1776, mentions, that the anniversary of the surrender of Granada to Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed in the city as a great festival and day of rejoicing; and that the populace on that occasion paid an annual visit to the Moorish palace.

[98] “Los Gomeles todos se passeron en Africa, y el Rey Chico con ellos, que no quisò estar en España, y en Africa le mataron los Moros de aquellas partes, porque perdiò a Granada.”--_Guerras Civiles de Granada._

[99] Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by Ferdinand and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padul to take a last look of his city and palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into tears, and was thus reproached by his mother, the Sultaness Ayxa,--“Thou dost well to weep like a woman, over the loss of that kingdom which thou knewest not how to defend and die for like a man.”

[100] “El rey mandò, que si quedavan Zegris, que no viviessen en Granada, por la maldad qui hizieron contra los Abencerrages.”--_Guerras Civiles de Granada._

[101] “The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, and the cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are discovered from their summits; they are about seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and abound with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. In these mountains the wretched remains of the Moors took refuge.”--Bourgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_.

[102] “Plût à Dieu que je craignisse!”--_Andromaque._

[103] Mrs Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks of the Rhine, thus describes the colours of granite rocks in the mountains of the Bergstrasse. “The nearer we approached these mountains, the more we had occasion to admire the various tints of their granites. Sometimes the precipices were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or a blush approaching to lilac; and sometimes gleams of a pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon their sides. The day was cloudless and bright, and we were too near these heights to be deceived by the illusions of aërial colouring; the real hues of their features were as beautiful as their magnitude was sublime.”

THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS.

[“In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, made a bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations; and, pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults to which she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho from a pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had induced him to undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence; and a poison administered by her was soon afterwards the cause of his painful death.”--Sismondi, _History of the Italian Republics_, vol. i.]

“L’orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tiennent encore la tête levée.”--Mad. de Stael.

Midst Tivoli’s luxuriant glades, Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, Where dwelt, in days departed long, The sons of battle and of song, No tree, no shrub its foliage rears But o’er the wrecks of other years, Temples and domes, which long have been The soil of that enchanted scene.

There the wild fig-tree and the vine O’er Hadrian’s mouldering villa twine;[104] The cypress, in funereal grace, Usurps the vanish’d column’s place; O’er fallen shrine and ruin’d frieze The wall-flower rustles in the breeze; Acanthus-leaves the marble hide They once adorn’d in sculptured pride; And nature hath resumed her throne O’er the vast works of ages flown.

Was it for this that many a pile, Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, To Anio’s banks the image lent Of each imperial monument?[105] Now Athens weeps her shatter’d fanes, Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains; And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear’d From Tibur’s vale have disappear’d. We need no prescient sibyl there The doom of grandeur to declare; Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, Reveals some oracle of Time; Each relic utters Fate’s decree-- The future as the past shall be.

Halls of the dead! in Tibur’s vale, Who now shall tell your lofty tale? Who trace the high patrician’s dome, The bard’s retreat, the hero’s home? When moss-clad wrecks alone record There dwelt the world’s departed lord, In scenes where verdure’s rich array Still sheds young beauty o’er decay, And sunshine on each glowing hill Midst ruins finds a dwelling still.

Sunk is thy palace--but thy tomb, Hadrian! hath shared a prouder doom.[106] Though vanish’d with the days of old Its pillars of Corinthian mould; Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought, Each bodying some immortal thought, Which o’er that temple of the dead Serene but solemn beauty shed, Have found, like glory’s self, a grave In time’s abyss or Tiber’s wave;[107] Yet dreams more lofty and more fair Than art’s bold hand hath imaged e’er. High thoughts of many a mighty mind Expanding when all else declined, In twilight years, when only they Recall’d the radiance pass’d away, Have made that ancient pile their home, Fortress of freedom and of Rome.

There he, who strove in evil days Again to kindle glory’s rays, Whose spirit sought a path of light For those dim ages far too bright-- Crescentius--long maintain’d the strife Which closed but with its martyr’s life, And left th’ imperial tomb a name, A heritage of holier fame. There closed De Brescia’s mission high, From thence the patriot came to die;[108] And thou, whose Roman soul the last Spoke with the voice of ages past,[109] 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, Rienzi, 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![110]

’Tis morn--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; 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 Crescentius 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,-- Dreams which, surviving Empire’s fall, 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 their 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? The ministers of death are nigh, Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye; And in his glance there fives a mind Which was not form’d for chains to bind, But cast in 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,[111] Sunk is the crowning city’s throne:[112] Th’ illusions, that around her cast Their guardian spells, have long been past.[113] 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; Works of the mighty and the free, Whose 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? _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 arms 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-- Check’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.

[104] “J’étais allé passer quelques jours seuls à Tivoli. Je parcourus les environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris par la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me réfugiai dans les Salles des _Thermes_ voisins du _Pécile_, (monumens de la villa,) sous un figuier qui avait renversé le pan d’un mur en s’élevant. Dans un petit salon octogone, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait percé la voûte de l’édifice, et son gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueux, montait le long du mur comme un serpent. Autour de moi, à travers les arcades des ruines, s’ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Romaine. Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les salles désertes où venaient se réfugier quelques merles solitaires. Les fragmens de maçonnerie étaient tapissées de feuilles de scolopendre, dont la verdure satinée se dessinait comme un travail en mosaïque sur la blancheur des marbres: çà et là de hauts cyprès remplaçaient les colonnes tombées dans ces palais de la Mort; l’acanthe sauvage rampait à leurs pieds, sur des débris, comme si la nature s’était plu à reproduire sur ces chefs-d’œuvre mutilés d’architecture, l’ornement de leur beauté passée.”--Chateaubriand’s _Souvenirs d’ Italie_.

[105] The gardens and buildings of Hadrian’s villa were copies of the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions--the Lycæum, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the Temple of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c.

[106] The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St Angelo, was first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his successful defence of Rome against the Goths. “The lover of the arts,” says Gibbon, “must read with a sigh that the works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their lofty pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of the besiegers.” He adds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping Faun of the Barberini palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the ditch of St Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the Moles Hadriani was made a permanent fortress by the Roman government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were added to the original edifice, which had been stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pillars, and the brazen cone which crowned its summit.

[107] “Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables statues, out étés jetées dans le Tibre, et sont cachées sous ses flots. Qui sait si, pour les chercher, on ne le détournera pas un jour de son lit? Mais quand on songe que les chefs-d’œuvres du génie humain sont peut-être là devant nous, et qu’un œil plus perçant les verrait à travers les ondes, l’on éprouve je ne sais quelle émotion, qui renaît à Rome sans cesse sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une société pour la pensée dans les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs.”--Mad. de Stael.

[108] Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of Roman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the ancient constitution of the republic, was put to death in the year 1155 by Adrian IV. This event is thus described by Sismondi, _Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. “Le préfet demeura dans le château Saint Ange avec son prisonnier: il le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinée aux exécutions, devant la porte du peuple. Arnaud de Brescia, élevé sur un bûcher, fut attaché à un poteau, en face du Corso. Il pouvoit mésurer des yeux les trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son échafaud; elles font presqu’ une moitié de Rome. C’est là qu’habitoient les hommes qu’il avoit si souvent appelés à la liberté. Ils reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur législateur. Le tumulte de l’exécution et la flamme du bûcher réveillèrent les Romains; ils s’armèrent, ils accoururent, mais trop tard; et les cohortes du pape repoussèrent, avec leurs lances, ceux qui, n’ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du moins recueillir ses cendres comme de précieuses reliques.”

[109] “Posterity will compare the virtues and fadings of this extraordinary man; but in a long period of anarchy and servitude, the name of Rienzi has often been celebrated as the deliverer of his country, and the last of the Roman patriots.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. xii. p. 362.

[110] “Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu’à Venouse. Cet homme, de la plus basse naissance, n’avoit été élevé au consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse: mais le sénat ne voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux triomphe; il vit combien il étoit nécessaire qu’il s’attirât dans cette occasion la confiance du peuple--il alla au-devant Varron, et le remercia de ce _qu’il n’avoit pas désespéré de la republique_.”--Montesquieu’s _Grandeur et Décadence des Romains_.

[111] 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 Numa’s reign, a pestilence prevailed in Italy; Rome also felt its ravages. While the people were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. Of this he gave a very wonderful account, received from Egeria 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 meadows about it, where he frequently conversed with 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.”--_Life of Numa._

[112] “Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the _crowning city_, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth?”--_Isaiah_, chap. 23.

[113] “Un mélange bizarre de grandeur d’àme et de foiblesse entroit dès cette époque (l’onzième siècle) dans le caractère des Romains. Un mouvement généreux vers les grandes choses faisoit place tout-à-coup à l’abattement; ils passoient de la liberté la plus orageuse, à la servitude la plus avilissante. On auroit dit que les ruines et les portiques déserts de la capitale du monde, entretenoient ses habitans dans le sentiment de leur impuissance; au milieu de ces monumens de leur domination passée, les citoyens éprouvoient d’une manière trop décourageante leur propre nullité. Le nom des Romains qu’ils portoient ranimoit fréquemment leur enthousiasme, comme il le ranime encore aujourd’hui; mas bientôt la vue de Rome, du forum désert, des sept collines de nouveau rendues au pâturage des troupeaux, des temples désolés, des monumens tombant en ruine, les ramenoit à sentir qu’ils n’étoient plus les Romains d’autrefois.”--Sismondi, _Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. i. p. 172.

## 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, Time 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.[114] 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? 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?[115] 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,[116] 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 Aërial 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. 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 every scene, o’er every hour: E’en thus _he_ 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 suffer’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 time.

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 Guido’s face, The stamp of woes like these to trace. Oh! where can ruins awe mankind Dark as the ruins of the mind?

His mien is lofty, but his gaze Too well a wandering soul betrays: His full dark eye at times 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, And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song To speed the banquet’s hour along!-- 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 woe; 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 fix’d 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? 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, spurn’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 time 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? 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: From purple heavens its lingering beam Seems melting into Tiber’s stream, And softly tints each Roman 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.

[114] “As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circæum with a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately to sail from thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes in Cæsar, 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 perplexing and horrid thoughts; insomuch, that he was sometimes inclined to go privately into Cæsar’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 in the summer, 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 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_.

[115]

“Now purer air Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All sadness but despair.”--Milton.

[116] 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:

‘Aquilonibus Querceta Gargani laborant, Et foliis viduantur orni.’--Horace.

“There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vegetation.”--Swinburne’s _Travels_.

[117] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found in original page 90 footnote 3. “In yonder nether world where shall I seek His bright appearances, or footstep trace?”--Milton.

THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

[“Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution 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 expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city--a silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day--on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled 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.”--Langhorne’s _Plutarch_.]

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, O 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 burning 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!--in 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, But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth.

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 joys 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, But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe.

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow, To that ascendant and undying name, Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now. Thy glory is departed, but hath left A lingering light around thee: in decay Not 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!

But thou, 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.[118]

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.

“Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er, O 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 banish’d from the sky, The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop--but die.”

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 morn’s awakening beams, 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?--Near 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, O ye invisible and awful throng! Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along. Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky By that dread sign reveals thy doom--“Despair and die!”[119]

[118] 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.

[119]

“To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!” _Richard III._

ALARIC IN 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, than 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 Charybdis--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 character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful 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 remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the work.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 329.]

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? 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,[120] Nor 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;

And woke they not--the brave, the free, To guard their own Thermopylæ? 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 _thee_ to dare The conflict, scorning to despair? O 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? Did no Camillus from the chain Ransom 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,[121] 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! 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 crystal 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,[122] 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 Pæstan 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; 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,[123] 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? Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air? 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? Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? 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 memory 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, O 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, 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.

[120] 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 country. 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.

[121] “At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous 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 portion 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.

[122] 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_.

[123] Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and peculiar dominion of Ceres.

THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.

[“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 conqueror’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 unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames 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 having 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 brightness ere they fall; Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams-- Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’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.[124] --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! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee, E’en in thy fetters, can existence be! Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!--with blasted name, The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame. O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain! Still may the manès 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?--’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, Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.

[124] It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy.

HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE.

[From _Maccabees_, book ii. chapter 3, verse 21. “Then it would have pitied a man to see the falling down of the multitude 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. Now 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 apparition, 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 covering; 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 train, 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 Rose from her dwellings--youthful cheeks were pale, 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, O 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 undismay’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!

His neck is clothed with thunder,[125] 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, Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form, 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 pale-- 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, O city of the sacred hill! Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still.

[125] “Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?”--_Job_, chap. xxxix. v. 19.

NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA.

[“En même temps que les Génois poursuivoient avec ardeur la guerre contre Pise, ils étoient déchirés eux-mêmes par une discorde civile. Les consuls de l’année 1169, pour rétablir la paix dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions sourdes à leur voix et plus puissantes qu’eux, furent obligés d’ourdir en quelque sorte une conspiration. Ils commencèrent par s’assurer secrètement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs des citoyens, qui cependant étoient entraînés dans les émeutes par leur parenté avec les chefs de faction; puis, se concertant avec le vénérable vieillard, Hugues, leur archevêque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du soleil, appeler au son des cloches les citoyens au parlement: ils se flattoient que la surprise et l’alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au milieu de l’obscurité de la nuit, rendroit l’assemblée et plus complète et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au parlement général, virent, au milieu de la place publique, le vieil archevêque, entouré de son clergé en habit de cérémonies, et portant des torches allumées; tandis que les reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Gênes, étoient exposées devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus respectables portoient à leurs mains des croix suppliantes. Dès que l’assemblée fut formée, le vieillard se leva, et de sa voix cassée il conjura les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom du salut de leurs âmes, au nom de leur patrie et de la liberté, dont leurs discordes entraîneroient la ruine, de jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de leurs querelles, et la paix à venir.

“Les hérauts, dès qu’il eut fini de parler, s’avancèrent aussitôt vers Roland Avogado, le chef de l’une des factions, qui étoit présent à l’assemblée, et, secondés par les acclamations de tout le peuple, et par les prières de ses parens eux-mêmes, ils le sommèrent de se conformer au vœu des consuls et de la nation.

“Roland, à leur approche, déchira ses habits, et, s’asseyant par terre en versant des larmes, il appela à haute voix les morts qu’il avoit juré de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit le déterminer à s’avancer, les consuls eux-mêmes, l’archevêque et le clergé, s’approchèrent de lui, et, renouvelant leurs prières, ils l’entraînèrent enfin, et lui firent jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de ses inimitiés passées.

“Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo de Volta, n’étoient pas présens à l’assemblée, mais le peuple et le clergé se portèrent en foule à leurs maisons; ils les trouvèrent dejà ébranlés par ce qu’ils venoient d’apprendre, et, profitant de leur émotion, ils leur firent jurer une réconciliation sincère, et donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction opposée. Alors les cloches de la ville sonnèrent en témoignage d’allégresse, et l’archevêque de retour sur la place publique entonna un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, eu honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauvé leur patrie.”--_Histoire des Républiques 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. 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; And 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 sublimer 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 all 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 plume. 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; 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? 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, O 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!”

Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away, And the rich Orient burns 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 CŒUR 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 Provençal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared that prince’s friendship and tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired to the place; but the gates of the castle were shut against him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, he bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been composed partly by himself, partly by Richard; and to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and continued by the royal captive.--(_Hist. Troubadours._) To this discovery the English monarch is said to have eventually owed his release.”--See Russell’s _Modern Europe_, vol. i. p. 369.

The Troubadour o’er many a plain Hath roam’d unwearied, but in vain. O’er many a rugged mountain-scene And forest wild his track hath been: Beneath Calabria’s glowing sky He hath sung the songs of chivalry; His voice hath swell’d on the Alpine breeze, And rung through the snowy Pyrenees; From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave, He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave; And yet, if still on earth thou art, Monarch of the lion-heart! The faithful spirit, which distress But heightens to devotedness, By toil and trial vanquish’d not, Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.

He hath reach’d a mountain hung with vine, And woods that wave o’er the lovely Rhine: The feudal towers that crest its height Frown in unconquerable might; Dark is their aspect of sullen state-- No helmet hangs o’er the massy gate[126] To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, At the chieftain’s board a welcome guest; Vainly rich evening’s parting smile Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky.

Not these the halls where a child of song Awhile may speed the hours along; Their echoes should repeat alone The tyrant’s mandate, the prisoner’s moan, Or the wild huntsman’s bugle-blast, When his phantom train are hurrying past.[127] The weary minstrel paused--his eye Roved o’er the scene despondingly: Within the length’ning shadow, cast By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, Lingering he gazed. The rocks around Sublime in savage grandeur frown’d; Proud guardians of the regal flood, In giant strength the mountains stood-- By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, But the Rhine all shadowy roll’d below; In purple tints the vineyards smiled, But the woods beyond waved dark and wild; Nor pastoral pipe nor convent’s bell Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell; But all was lonely, silent, rude, A stern, yet glorious solitude.

But hark! that solemn stillness breaking, The Troubadour’s wild song is waking. Full oft that song in days gone by Hath cheer’d the sons of chivalry: It hath swell’d o’er Judah’s mountains lone, Hermon! thy echoes have learn’d its tone; On the Great Plain[128] its notes have rung, The leagued Crusaders’ tents among; Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won The palm in the field of Ascalon; And now afar o’er the rocks of Rhine Peals the bold strain of Palestine.

[126] It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake of hospitality. So in the romance of “Perceforest,” “ils fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un _heaulme_, en signe que tous les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardiment en leur hostel comme en leur propre.”

[127] Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the haunt of the _wild Jager_, or supernatural huntsman. The superstitious tales relating to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace’s _Classical Tour_; and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament to the opposite castle of Schnellerts.--See the “_Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin_,” and “_Autumn on the Rhine_.”

THE TROUBADOUR’S SONG.

“Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,” The Soldan cried to the captive knight, “And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met To gaze on the fearful sight.

“But be our faith by thy lips profess’d, The faith of Mecca’s shrine, Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, And life shall yet be thine.”

“I have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood, And gazed with undaunted eye; I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood, And think’st thou I fear to die?

“I have stood where thousands, by Salem’s towers, Have fall’n for the name Divine; And the faith that cheer’d _their_ closing hours Shall be the light of mine.”

“Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health, And the glow of youth’s fresh bloom? Thou art offer’d life, and pomp, and wealth, Or torture and the tomb.”

“I have been where the crown of thorns was twined For a dying Saviour’s brow; _He_ spurn’d the treasures that lure mankind, And I reject them now!”

“Art thou the son of a noble line In a land that is fair and blest? And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine Again on its shores to rest?

“Thine own is the choice to hail once more The soil of thy father’s birth, Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er, Forgotten in foreign earth.”

“Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise In the country of my love; But yet, though cloudless my native skies, There’s a brighter clime above!”

The bard hath paused--for another tone Blends with the music of his own; And his heart beats high with hope again, As a well-known voice prolongs the strain.

“Are there none within thy father’s hall, Far o’er the wide blue main, Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall, With sorrow deep and vain?”

“There are hearts that still, through all the past, Unchanging have loved me well; There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast When I bade my home farewell.

“Better they wept o’er the warrior’s bier Than th’ apostate’s living stain; There’s a land where those who loved when here Shall meet to love again.”

’Tis he! thy prince--long sought, long lost, The leader of the red-cross host! ’Tis he!--to none thy joy betray, Young Troubadour! away, away! Away to the island of the brave, The gem on the bosom of the wave;[129] Arouse the sons of the noble soil To win their Lion from the toil. And free the wassail-cup shall flow, Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow; The festal board shall be richly crown’d, While knights and chieftains revel round, And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, When merry England hails her king.

[128] The Plain of Esdräelon, called by way of eminence the “Great Plain;” in Scripture, and elsewhere, the “field of Megiddo,” the “Galilean Plain.” This plain, the most fertile part of all the land of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest in the first ages of Jewish history, as well as during the Roman empire, the Crusades, and even in later times. It has been a chosen place for encampment in every contest carried on in this country, from the days of Nabuchodonosor, King of the Assyrians, until the disastrous march of Buonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors out of “every nation which is under heaven” have pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdräelon, and have beheld the various banners of their nations wet with the dews of Hermon and Thabor.--_Dr Clarke’s Travels._

[129] “This precious stone set in the sea.”--_Richard II._

THE DEATH OF CONRADIN.

[“La défaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni à ses malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles d’Anjou.) L’amour du peuple pour l’héritier légitime du trône avoit éclaté d’une manière effrayante; il pouvoit causer de nouvelles révolutions, si Conradin demeuroit en vie; et Charles, revêtant sa défiance et sa cruauté des formes de la justice, résolut de faire périr sur l’échafaud le dernier rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, l’unique espérance de son parti. Un seul juge Provençal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens n’ont pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, d’autres se renfermèrent dans un timide et coupable silence; et Charles, sur l’autorité de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume, la sentence de mort contre Conradin et tous ses compagnons. Cette sentence fut communiquée à Conradin, comme il jouoit aux échecs; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se préparer à son exécution, et le 26 d’Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur la Place du Marché de Naples, le long du rivage de la mer. Charles étoit présent, avec toute sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi condamné. Conradin étoit entre les mains des bourreaux; il détacha lui-même son manteau, et s’étant mis à genoux pour prier, il se releva en s’écriant: ‘Oh, ma mère, quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu’on va te porter de moi!’ Puis il tourna les yeux sur la foule qui l’entouroit; il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple; alors, détachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d’un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tête au bourreau. Après lui, sur le même échafaud, Charles fit trancher la tête au Duc d’Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Bartolommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Donoratico de Pise. Par un raffinement de cruauté, Charles voulut que le premier, fils du second, précédât son père, et mourût entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d’après ses ordres, furent exclus d’une terre sainte, et inhumés sans pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II. cependant fit dans la suite bâtir sur le même lieu une église de Carmélites, comme pour apaiser ces ombres irritées.”--Sismondi’s _Républiques Italiennes_.]

No cloud to dim the splendour of the day Which breaks o’er Naples and her lovely bay, And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore With every tint that charm’d the great of yore-- Th’ imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade Their marble domes e’en ocean’s realm invade. That race is gone--but glorious Nature here Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, And bids these regions of the sun display Bright hues, surviving empires pass’d away.

The beam of heaven expands--its kindling smile Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest, With all its rocks and vines, on ocean’s breast. Misenum’s cape hath caught the vivid ray, On Roman streamers there no more to play; Still, as of old, unalterably bright, Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo’s height, With all Italia’s sunshine to illume The ilex canopy of Virgil’s tomb. Campania’s plains rejoice in light, and spread Their gay luxuriance o’er the mighty dead; Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, Thy palaces, exulting Naples! rise; While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak, Furrow’d and dark with many a lava streak.

Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse! Rich with all nature’s and all fiction’s hues, Who shall explore your regions, and declare The poet err’d to paint Elysium there? Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside; And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, And spells more potent shall pervade the air. What though his dust be scatter’d, and his urn Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,[130] Still dwell the beings of his verse around, Hovering in beauty o’er th’ enchanted ground; His lays are murmur’d in each breeze that roves Soft o’er the sunny waves and orange-groves; His memory’s charm is spread o’er shore and sea, The soul, the genius of Parthenope; Shedding o’er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill The purple radiance of Elysium still.

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky Have witness’d many a dark reality. Oft o’er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne The sighs of exiles never to return.[131] There with the whisper of Campania’s gale Hath mingled oft affection’s funeral wail, Mourning for buried heroes--while to her That glowing land was but their sepulchre.[132] And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan Swell’d from strange voices of no mortal tone; And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note Was heard at midnight o’er the hills to float Around the spot where Agrippina died, Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.[133]

Pass’d are those ages--yet another crime, Another woe, must stain th’ Elysian clime. There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore-- It must be crimson’d ere the day is o’er! There is a throne in regal pomp array’d,-- A scene of death from thence must be survey’d. Mark’d ye the rushing throngs?--each mien is pale, Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale: But the deep workings of th’ indignant breast, Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress’d; The burning tear awhile must check its course, Th’ avenging thought concentrate all its force; For tyranny is near, and will not brook Aught but submission in each guarded look.

Girt with his fierce Provençals, and with mien Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,[134] And in his eye a keen suspicious glance Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, Behold the conqueror! Vainly in his face Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace; Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament: And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, May read at once her sentence--to despair!

But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave, Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, While all is yet around thee which can give A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live; Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother’s eye, Till the deep love that not with thee shall die Hath grown too full for utterance--Can it be! And is this pomp of death prepared for _thee_? Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known Of life as yet the sunny smile alone! Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom Of youth, array’d so richly for the tomb, Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, Emotions tyranny may ne’er control? Bright victim! to Ambition’s altar led, Crown’d with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed, Who, from th’ oppressor towering in his pride, May hope for mercy--if to thee denied? There is dead silence on the breathless throng, Dead silence all the peopled shore along, As on the captive moves--the only sound, To break that calm so fearfully profound, The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave; While on that shore, his own fair heritage, The youthful martyr to a tyrant’s rage Is passing to his fate: the eyes are dim Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him. He mounts the scaffold--doth his footstep fail? Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale? Oh! it may be forgiven him if a thought Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, To all the hopes that promised glory’s meed, And all th’ affections that with him shall bleed! If, in his life’s young dayspring, while the rose Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, One human fear convulse his parting breath, And shrink from all the bitterness of death!

But no! the spirit of his royal race Sits brightly on his brow: that youthful face Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye Is eloquent with injured majesty. He kneels--but not to man; his heart shall own Such deep submission to his God alone! And who can tell with what sustaining power That God may visit him in fate’s dread hour? How the still voice, which answers every moan, May speak of hope--when hope on earth is gone?

That solemn pause is o’er--the youth hath given One glance of parting love to earth and heaven: The sun rejoices in th’ unclouded sky, Life all around him glows--and he must die? Yet midst his people, undismay’d, he throws The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes; Vengeance that, like their own volcano’s fire, May sleep suppress’d a while--but not expire. One softer image rises o’er his breast, One fond regret, and all shall be at rest! “Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, When thy lost child is gone?”--that thought can thrill His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. The lifted axe is glittering in the sun-- It falls--the race of Conradin is run! Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain, A voice shall cry to heaven--and not in vain! Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, In proud supremacy of guilt alone, Charles of Anjou!--but that dread voice shall be A fearful summoner e’en yet to thee!

The scene of death is closed--the throngs depart, A deep stem lesson graved on every heart. No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave, Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean’s wave; Mark’d by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, Unhonour’d, unadorn’d--but _unforgot_; For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, Now mutely suffering--never to forgive!

The sunset fades from purple heavens away-- A bark hath anchor’d in the unruffled bay: Thence on the beach descends a female form,[135] Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm; But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, And her soft eyes a chasten’d heart bespeak, Inured to woes--yet what were all the past! _She_ sank not feebly ’neath affliction’s blast, While one bright hope remain’d--who now shall tell Th’ uncrown’d, the widow’d, how her loved one fell? To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, The mother came--and she hath found his grave! And by that grave, transfix’d in speechless grief, Whose deathlike trance denies a tear’s relief, Awhile she kneels--till roused at length to know, To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, On the still air a voice of anguish wild, A mother’s cry is heard--“My Conradin! my child!”

[130] The urn supposed to have contained the ashes of Virgil has long since been lost.

[131] Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to some of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Italy. Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many years in the isle of Pandataria, and her daughter Agrippina, the widow of Germanicus, afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot.

[132] “Quelques souvenirs du cœur, quelques noms de femmes, réclament aussi vos pleurs. C’est à Misène, dans le lieu même où nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompée Cornélie conserva jusqu’à la mort son noble deuil. Agrippine pleura long-temps Germanicus sur ces bords: un jour, le même assassin qui lui ravit son époux la trouva digne de le suivre. L’île de Nisida fut témoin des adieux de Brutus et de Porcie.”--Madame de Stael, _Corinne_.

[133] The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime had been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors; besides, there were some who imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries from Agrippina’s tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, withdrew to Naples.--See _Ancient Universal History_.

[134] “Ce Charles,” dit Giovanni Villani, “fut sage et prudent dans les conseils, preux dans les armes, âpre et forte redouté de tous les rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensées qui l’égaloient aux plus grandes entreprises; inébranlable dans l’adversité, ferme et fidèle dans toutes ses promesses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, _ni riant presque jamais_, décent comme un religieux, zélé catholique, âpre à rendre justice, féroce dans ses regards. Sa taille étoit grande et nerveuse, sa couleur olivâtre, son nez fort grand. Il paroissoit plus fait qu’aucun autre chevalier pour la majesté royale. Il ne dormoit presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours, et aux gens de cour.”--Sismondi, _Républiques Italiennes_, vol. iii.

[135] “The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody catastrophe of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of Austria, butchered before its door. Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearned at the idea of their premature fate, and at the deep distress of Conradin’s mother, who, landing on the beach with her son’s ransom, found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his barbarous conqueror.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two Sicilies_.

EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS.

_Quarterly Review._--“‘Tales and Historic Scenes’ is a collection, as the title imports, of narrative poems. Perhaps it was not on consideration that Mrs Hemans passed from a poem of picture-drawing and reflection to the writing of tales; but if we were to prescribe to a young poet his _course_ of practice, this would certainly be our advice. The luxuriance of a young fancy delights in description, and the quickness and inexperience of the same age, in passing judgments,--in the one richness, in the other antithesis and effect, are too often more sought after than truth: the poem is written rapidly, and correctness but little attended to. But in narration more care must be taken: if the tale be fictitious, the conception and sustainment of the characters, the disposition of the facts, the relief of the soberer parts by description, reflection, or dialogue, form so many useful studies for a growing artist. If the tale be borrowed from history, a more delicate task is added to those just mentioned, in determining how far it may be necessary, or safe, to interweave the ornaments of fiction with the groundwork of truth, and in skilfully performing that difficult task. In both cases, the mind is compelled to make a more sustained effort, and acquires thereby greater vigour, and a more practical readiness in the detail of the art.

“The principal poem in this volume is The Abencerrage. It commemorates the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella, and attributes it, in great measure, to the revenge of Hamet, chief of the Abencerrages, who had been induced to turn his arms against his countrymen the Moors, in order to procure the ruin of their king, the murderer of his father and brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night to the bower of Zayda, his beloved, the daughter of a rival and hated family. Her character is very finely drawn; and she repels with firmness all the solicitations and prayers of the traitor to his country. The following lines form part of their dialogue,--they are spirited and pathetic, but perfectly free from exaggeration,--

‘Oh! wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,’” etc.

_Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“The more we become acquainted with Mrs Hemans as a poet, the more we are delighted with her productions, and astonished by her powers. She will, she must, take her place among eminent poets. If she has a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna Baillie; but, even compared with the living _masters_ of the lyre, she is entitled to a very high distinction....

“Mrs Hemans manifests, in her own fine imagination, a fund which is less supported by loan than the wealth of some very eminent poets whom we could name. We think it impossible that she can write by mere rule, more than on credit. If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms. It is by inspiration--as it is poetically called--by a fine tact of sympathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she pours forth her enchanting song and ‘builds her lofty rhyme.’ The judicious propriety wherewith she bestows on each element of her composition its due share of fancy and of feeling, much increases our respect for her powers. With an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which quite sparkles, are touched her lighter delineations; with a rich and glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature: a sublime eloquence is the charm of her sentiments of magnanimity; while she melts into tenderness with a grace in which she has few equals.

“It appears to us that Mrs Hemans has yielded her own to the public taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle of tales.”

_Constable’s Magazine._--“The Abencerrage is a romance, the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romantic period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit of romance was most powerful, and lingered longest--in the kingdom of Granada, where the power of the Moors was first established, and had the greatest continuance.... The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, and with these the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate lovers are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of the descriptions here is exquisite.... Choice is bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted to extract from The Abencerrage.

“If any reader considers our strictures tedious, and our extracts profuse, our best apology is, that the luxury of doing justice to so much genuine talent, adorning so much private worth, does not often occur to tempt us to an excess of this nature.”

THE SCEPTIC.[136]

“Leur raison, qu’ils prennent pour guide, ne presente à leur esprit que des conjectures et des embarras; les absurdités où ils tombent en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les verités dont la hauteur les étonne; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mysteres incomprehensibles, ils suivent l’une après l’autre d’incomprehensibles erreurs.”--Bossuet.

When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, Has learn’d to dare the splendour of the sky, And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source; Will his free wing, from that majestic height, Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light, Which far below, with evanescent fire, Shines to delude and dazzles to expire? No! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day! --And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze The dayspring from on high hath pour’d its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, Luring the wanderer from the star of faith To the deep valley of the shades of death? What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, For the high birthright of its hope in heaven? If lost the gem which empires could not buy, What yet remains?--a dark eternity!

Is earth still Eden?--might a seraph guest Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest? Is all so cloudless and so calm below, We seek no fairer scenes than _life_ can show? That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, Rejects the promise of a brighter state, And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base?

Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! ’Tis well--thine eye is yet undimm’d by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom’s warning voice, And in the glory of thy strength rejoice!

But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, Are few and distant on the desert soil; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling--Man! Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared-- Proud child of reason! how art _thou_ prepared? When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d, And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain With the bright images of pleasure’s train?

Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave Drawn, vainly struggling, to th’ unfathom’d grave! Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, She who, like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all? Will _she_ speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!

For she was born beyond the stars to soar, And kindling at the source of life, adore; Thou couldst not, mortal! rivet to the earth Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth; She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee.

Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft, But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left; And, haply, one whose strong affection’s power Unchanged may triumph through misfortune’s hour, Still with fond care supports thy languid head, And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.

But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above, Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to _love_? To nurse such feelings as delight to rest Within that hallow’d shrine--a parent’s breast, To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, On one frail idol--destined but to die; Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, Where sever’d souls, made perfect, re-unite? Then tremble! cling to every passing joy, Twined with the life a moment may destroy! If there be sorrow in a parting tear, Still let “_for ever_” vibrate on thine ear! If some bright hour on rapture’s wing hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought--’tis gone!

Go! to a voice such magic influence give, Thou canst not lose its melody, and live; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, And let a glance the springs of thought control; Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, Lean on the willow, idolise the dust! Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, Think on that dread “_for ever_”--and despair!

And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. Watch well its course--explore with anxious eye Each little cloud that floats along the sky: Is the blue canopy serenely fair? Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, And the bark sink when peace and sunshine sleep On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep! Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate, May the blow fall which makes thee desolate! Not always heaven’s destroying angel shrouds His awful form in tempests and in clouds; He fills the summer air with latent power, He hides his venom in the scented flower, He steals upon thee in the zephyr’s breath, And festal garlands veil the shafts of death!

Where art thou _then_, who thus didst rashly cast Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, And vainly hope the tree of life to find Rooted in sands that flit before the wind? Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, It wish’d not in a brighter sphere to dwell, Become a desert _now_, a vale of gloom, O’ershadow’d with the midnight of the tomb? Where shalt thou turn? It is not thine to raise To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze-- No gleam reflected from that realm of rest Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast; Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed Her glory round the image of the dead; And if, when slumber’s lonely couch is prest, The form departed be thy spirit’s guest, It bears no light from purer worlds to this; Thy future lends not e’en a dream of bliss.

But who shall dare the gate of life to close, Or say, _thus far_ the stream of mercy flows? That fount unseal’d, whose boundless waves embrace Each distant isle, and visit every race, Pours from the throne of God its current free, Nor yet denies th’ immortal draught to thee. Oh! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, While yet th’ Atoner hath not ceased to plead-- While still, suspended by a single hair, The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air, Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break The bruisèd reed; e’en yet, awake, awake! Patient, because Eternal,[138] He may hear Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, And send his chastening Spirit from above, O’er the deep chaos of thy soul to move.

But seek thou mercy through his name alone, To whose unequall’d sorrows none was shown; Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, As man to suffer, and to heal as God; And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, Endured all scorn, and aided all distress.

Call thou on Him! for he, in human form, Hath walk’d the waves of life, and still’d the storm. He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, O’er Salem wept, relenting to the last-- Wept with such tears as Judah’s monarch pour’d O’er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored; And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, Taught from his Cross the lesson--to forgive!

Call thou on Him! His prayer e’en then arose, Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes. And haste!--ere bursts the lightning from on high, Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly![139] So shall th’ Avenger turn his steps away, And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey.

Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, As the soft halcyon, o’er thy heart subdued; Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed Inspiring influence o’er thy fallen head. --He who hath pined in dungeons, midst the shade Of such deep night as man for man hath made, Through lingering years--if call’d at length to be Once more, by nature’s boundless charter, free Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun.

Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain’d In its own dread abyss of darkness chain’d, If the Deliverer, in his might at last, Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight, Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. But this will pass away: that spark of mind, Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined, Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray, Born to be foster’d with ethereal day. Then wilt thou bless the hour when o’er thee pass’d, On wing of flame, the purifying blast, And sorrow’s voice, through paths before untrod, Like Sinai’s trumpet, call’d thee to thy God!

But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, Heaven’s messenger, affliction, to deride? In thine own strength unaided to defy, With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky? Torn by the vulture, fetter’d to the rock, Still, demigod! the tempest wilt thou mock? Alas! the tower that crests the mountain’s brow A thousand years may awe the vale below, Yet not the less be shatter’d on its height By one dread moment of the earthquake’s might! A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, In silent fortitude or haughty scorn, Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent To break the mighty heart that ne’er was bent.

Oh! what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply! The wild delirious laughter of despair, The mirth of frenzy--seek an answer there! Turn not away, though pity’s cheek grow pale, Close not thine ear against their awful tale. They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave Forsook the struggling soul she could not save! Weep not, sad moralist! o’er desert plains Strew’d with the wrecks of grandeur--mouldering fanes, Arches of triumph, long with weeds o’ergrown, And regal cities, now the serpent’s own: Earth has more awful ruins--one lost mind, Whose star is quench’d, hath lessons for mankind Of deeper import than each prostrate dome Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome.

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore That waste, illumed by reason’s beam no more? Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll Around the shatter’d temple of the soul, Curtain’d with midnight? Low its columns lie, And dark the chambers of its imagery;[140] Sunk are its idols now--and God alone May rear the fabric by their fall o’erthrown! Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, Is heard an oracle that cries--“Beware! Child of the dust! but ransom’d of the skies! One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies! Haste, ere the hour of doom--draw nigh to Him Who dwells above, between the cherubim!”

Spirit dethroned! and check’d in mid career-- Son of the morning! exiled from thy sphere, Tell us thy tale! Perchance thy race was run With science in the chariot of the sun; Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep, Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep, And search the laws that nature’s springs control, There tracing all--save Him who guides the whole!

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast Through the dim shades, the portals of the past; By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed From the far beacon-lights of ages fled, The depths of time exploring, to retrace The glorious march of many a vanish’d race.

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre Till its deep chords became instinct with fire, Silenced all meaner notes, and swell’d on high, Full and alone, their mighty harmony; While woke each passion from its cell profound, And nations started at th’ electric sound?

Lord of th’ ascendant! what avails it now, Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow? What though thy name, through distant empires heard, Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word? Was it for _this_ thy still unwearied eye Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky, To make the secrets of all ages thine, And commune with majestic thoughts that shine O’er Time’s long shadowy pathway?--hath thy mind Sever’d its lone dominions from mankind, For _this_ to woo their homage! Thou hast sought All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, Won every wreath--but that which will not die, Nor aught neglected--save eternity!

And did all fail thee in the hour of wrath, When burst th’ o’erwhelming vials on thy path? Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, O spirit! sceptred by the sons of men, With an immortal’s courage, to sustain The transient agonies of earthly pain? --One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved When the loud fury of the billow raved; But him thou knew’st not--and the light he lent Hath vanish’d from its ruin’d tenement, But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, A thing we shrink from--vainly to forget! --Lift the dread veil no further! Hide, oh hide The bleeding form, the couch of suicide! The dagger, grasp’d in death--the brow, the eye, Lifeless, yet stamp’d with rage and agony; The soul’s dark traces left in many a line Graved on _his_ mein, who died--“and made no sign!” Approach not, gaze not--lest thy fever’d brain Too deep that image of despair retain. Angels of slumber! o’er the midnight hour Let not such visions claim unhallow’d power, Lest the mind sink with terror, and above See but th’ Avenger’s arm, forget th’ Atoner’s love!

O Thou! th’ unseen, th’ all-seeing!--Thou whose ways, Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand, And countless ages, trampling into clay Earth’s empires on their march, are but a day; Father of worlds unknown, unnumber’d!--Thou, With whom all time is one eternal _now_, Who know’st no past nor future--Thou whose breath Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death! Look on us! guide us!--wanderers of a sea Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee? A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, A star may set--and we are lost in night; A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool’s brink, A treacherous song allure us--and we sink!

Oh! by _His_ love, who, veiling Godhead’s light, To moments circumscribed the Infinite, And heaven and earth disdain’d not to ally By that dread union--Man with Deity; Immortal tears o’er mortal woes who shed, And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead; Save, or we perish! Let Thy word control The earthquakes of that universe--the soul; Pervade the depths of passion; speak once more The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, “Here shall thy waves be stay’d;” in grief, in pain, The fearful poise of reason’s sphere maintain. Thou, by whom suns are balanced! thus secure In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure; Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just Look upward still, in high and holy trust, And by affliction guided to Thy shrine, The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine.

And oh! be near when, clothed with conquering power, The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour: When on the edge of that unknown abyss Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave, Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, Must drink the cup of trembling[141]--when we see Nought in the universe but Death and Thee, Forsake us not! If still, when life was young, Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past, The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, Father, forsake us not! When tortures urge The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge-- When from thy justice to thy love we fly, On nature’s conflict look with pitying eye; Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, Come in the “small still voice,” and whisper--Peace![142]

For oh! ’tis awful! He that hath beheld The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d, Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain; He that hath seen the last convulsive throe Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe, Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet In glory’s arms exultingly to meet-- A closing triumph, a majestic scene, Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien, As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all, He folds his mantle, regally to fall! --Hush, fond enthusiast! Still, obscure, and lone, Yet not less terrible because unknown, Is the last hour of thousands: they retire From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire. As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect’s little world of cares, Descends in silence--while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown, --Start not, thou trifler!--such may be thine own.

But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before, We fain would stifle--but it sleeps no more! There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng That join the masque of revelry and song: Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored, Frowns midst the roses of the festal board; And when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood, And the heart owns the might of solitude, Is its low whisper heard?--a note profound, But wild and startling as the trumpet sound That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes!

Oh! vainly Reason’s scornful voice would prove That life had nought to claim such lingering love, And ask if e’er the captive, half unchain’d, Clung to the links which yet his step restrain’d. In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride, Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, Call up the countless armies of the dead, Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, And say--“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree, Made for creation, be reversed for _thee_?” Poor, feeble aid! Proud Stoic! ask not why-- It is enough that nature shrinks to die. Enough, _that_ horror, which thy words upbraid, Is her dread penalty, and must be paid! Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined And mystic questions of the parting mind, Half check’d, half utter’d: tell her what shall burst, In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, When freed from mortal films--what viewless world Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl’d-- What awful and unbodied beings guide Her timid flight through regions yet untried; Say if at once, her final doom to hear, Before her God the trembler must appear, Or wait that day of terror, when the sea Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee?

Hast thou no answer? Then deride no more The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore The unknown, the unseen, the future--though the heart, As at unearthly sounds, before them start; Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh, They have their source in immortality! Whence, then, shall strength, which reason’s aid denies, An equal to the mortal conflict rise? When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, Where’er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, The mighty rider comes--oh whence shall aid Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay’d? Whence, but from thee, Messiah!--thou hast drain’d The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain’d; To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, The mystic horror--all became thine own!

But did no hand celestial succour bring, Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? Came not th’ Archangel, in the final hour, To arm thee with invulnerable power? No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, From man averted--and thy path on high Pass’d through the straight of fiercest agony: For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes, Received the last, the almighty sacrifice!

But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom! The vale of death in conquest hath been trod. Break forth in joy, ye ransom’d! saith your God; Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star.

He rose! the everlasting gates of day Received the King of Glory on his way! The hope, the comforter of those who wept, And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept, He rose, he triumph’d! he will yet sustain Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. Aided by Him, around the martyr’s frame When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice! Aided by Him, though none the bed attend Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart!

And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft Of that high hope, to misery what were left? But for the vision of the days to be, But for the comforter despised by thee, Should we not wither at the Chastener’s look, Should we not sink beneath our God’s rebuke, When o’er our heads the desolating blast, Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass’d, And the stem power who seeks the noblest prey Hath call’d our fairest and our best away? Should we not madden when our eyes behold All that we loved in marble stillness cold, No more responsive to our smile or sigh, Fix’d--frozen--silent--all mortality? But for the promise, “All shall yet be well,” Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel Beneath such clouds as darken’d when the hand Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land; And thou,[143] just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless, Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness, With all a nation’s blessings on thy head, O England’s flower! wert gather’d to the dead? But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart Faith’s lofty lesson didst thyself impart! When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled, When thy young bosom o’er thy lifeless child Yearn’d with vain longing--still thy patient eye To its last light beam’d holy constancy! Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, Amidst those agonies--thy first and last, Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, Breathed not a plaint--and settled in repose; While bow’d thy royal head to Him whose power Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, Who from the brightest vision of a throne, Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own, And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast, As blasted Israel when her ark was lost!

“It is the will of God!”--yet, yet we hear The words which closed thy beautiful career; Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, But for that thought--“It is the will of God!” Who shall arraign th’ Eternal’s dark decree If not one murmur then escaped from thee? Oh! still, though vanishing without a trace, Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, Hallow’d by freedom and enshrined in song! Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, E’en as an angel, with presiding care, To wake and guard thine own high virtues there.

For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies Call on the watchers of the land to rise, To set the sign of fire on every height,[144] And o’er the mountains rear with patriot might, Prepared, if summon’d, in its cause to die, The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory! By this hath England conquer’d. Field and flood Have own’d her sovereignty: alone she stood, When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown, In high and holy singleness, alone, But mighty in her God--and shall she now Forget before th’ Omnipotent to bow? From the bright fountain of her glory turn, Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn? No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude, Throned in thy majesty of solitude, Still in the deep asylum of thy breast Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers!

Still, where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle! In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes That guard the peasant’s records and remains, May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades, Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise, And bear the land’s warm incense to the skies. There may the mother, as with anxious joy To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, Teach his young accent still the immortal lays Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days, When angels, whispering through the cedar shade, Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d; And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, She bids the prayer of infancy arise, Tell of His name who left his throne on high, Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, And fondly say--“My child, for thee He died!”

[136] “The poem of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one in which her revered friend[137] took a peculiar interest. It had been her original wish to dedicate it to him, but he declined the tribute, thinking it might be more advantageous to her to pay this compliment to Mr Gifford, with whom she was at that time in frequent correspondence, and who entered very warmly into her literary undertakings, discussing them with the kindness of an old friend, and desiring her to command frankly whatever assistance his advice or experience could afford. Mrs Hemans, in the first instance, consented to adopt the suggestion regarding the altered dedication; but was afterwards deterred from putting it into execution, by a fear that it might be construed into a manœuvre to propitiate the good graces of the _Quarterly Review_; and from the slightest approach to any such mode of propitiation, her sensitive nature recoiled with almost fastidious delicacy.”--_Memoir_, p. 31.

“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 concluding 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 performances; 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 encouragement and cheer for her onward course. It was still dearer to her to receive the assurances, with which it often fell to her lot to be blessed, of having, in the exercise of the talents intrusted to her, administered balm to the feelings 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 perusal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure, but benefit.’”--_Ibid._

[137] Dr Luxmoore, Bishop of St Asaph.

[138] “He is patient, because He is eternal.”--St Augustine.

[139] “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.

[140] “Every man in the chambers of his imagery.”--_Ezekiel_, chap. viii.

[141] “Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and wrung them out.”--_Isaiah_, chap. li.

[142] “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: 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.

[143] The Princess Charlotte.

[144] “And set up a sign of fire.”--_Jeremiah_, chap. vi.

[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 entreating for a few minutes’ audience, with such urgent importunity 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 benedictions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but interesting visitant took his departure, leaving her overwhelmed with a mingled sense of joyful gratitude and wondering humility.--_Memoir_, p. 255-6.]

CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS.

_North American Review._--“In 1820 Mrs Hemans published The Sceptic, a poem of great merit for its style and its sentiments, of which we shall give a rapid sketch. She considers 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 hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, 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 all, Will she speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel-tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown.’

“The poet then asks, if an infidel dare love; and, having no home for his thoughts in a better world, nurse such feelings as delight to enshrine themselves in the breast of a parent. She addresses him on the insecurity of an attachment to a vain idol, from which death may at any time divide him ‘_for ever_.’... 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 unfortunate state of a mind which acquires every kind of knowledge 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 time, 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 entertain 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 exhibition 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. Not but that she has already 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 incipient excellence--the intimation rather than the fulfilment of the high destiny of her genius.

... “The verses of Mrs Hemans appear the spontaneous offspring of intense and noble feeling, governed by a clear understanding, and fashioned into elegance by an exquisite 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 vigorous intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far transcended in energy of thought the prosing pioneers of unbelief, she has sustained throughout a tone of warm and confiding 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 gentleness 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 advocating 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, ostensibly 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 of religion on the necessity of it--on the utter misery and helplessness of man without it. This argument is in itself available for all the purposes of poetry: it appeals to the imagination and passions of man; it is capable of interesting all our affectionate hopes and charities, of

## acting upon all our natural 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.