XXVIII.

And with that faith was conquest. He whose name To Judah’s harp of prophecy had rung-- He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame The mighty voice of Inspiration sung, He came, the victor Cyrus! As he pass’d, Thrones to his footstep rock’d, and monarchs lay Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast Their ancient idols down before _his_ way, Who in majestic march, from shore to shore, The quenchless flame revered by Persia’s children bore.

[145] _Serab_, mirage.

[146] At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the following stanza was here inserted:--

“Nor rose the Magian’s hymn, sublimely swelling In full-toned homage to the source of flame, From fabric rear’d by man, the gorgeous dwelling Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame. Be rear’d no temple, bade no walls contain The breath of incense or the voice of prayer; But made the boundless universe his fane, The rocks his altar-stone--adoring there The Being whose Omnipotence pervades All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades.”

[In the spring of 1820, Mrs Hemans first made the acquaintance of one who became afterwards a zealous and valuable friend, revered in life, and sincerely mourned in death--Bishop Heber, then Rector of Hodnet, and a frequent visitor at Bodryddan, the residence of his father-in-law, the late Dean of St Asaph, from whom also, during an intercourse of many years, Mrs Hemans at all times received much kindness and courtesy. Mr Reginald Heber was the first eminent literary character with whom she had ever familiarly associated; and she therefore entered with a peculiar freshness of feeling in to the delight inspired by his conversational powers, enhanced as they were by that gentle benignity of manner, so often the characteristic of minds of the very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this occasion, she thus describes her enjoyment:--“I am more delighted with Mr Heber than I can possibly tell you; his conversation is quite rich with anecdote, and every subject on which he speaks had been, you would imagine, the whole study of his life. In short, his society has made much the same sort of impression on my mind that the first perusal of _Ivanhoe_ did; and was something so perfectly new to me, that I can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long conversation with him on the subject of _the_ poem, which he read aloud, and commented upon as he proceeded. His manner was so entirely that of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opinions on the subject, even where they did not exactly coincide with his own.”

The poem here alluded to was the one entitled _Superstition_ and _Revelation_, which Mrs Hemans had commenced some time before, and which was intended to embrace a very extensive range of subject. Her original design will be best given in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss Park:--“I have been thinking a good deal of the plan we discussed together, of a poem on national superstitions. ‘Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,’ and in the course of my lucubrations on this subject, an idea occurred to me, which I hope you will not think me too presumptuous in wishing to realise. Might not a poem of some extent and importance, if the execution were at all equal to the design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets of Paganism with those of Christianity? It would contain, of course, much classical allusion; and all the graceful and sportive fictions of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more barbarous climes, might be introduced to prove how little consolation they could convey in the hour of affliction--or hope, in that of death. Many scenes from history might be portrayed in illustration of this idea; and the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality of the soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects for poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions which are still strangers to the blessings of our religion, such as the greatest part of Africa, India, &c., might contain much that is poetical; but the subject is almost boundless, and I think of it till I am startled by its magnitude.”

Mr Heber approved highly of the plan of the work, and gave her every encouragement to proceed in it; supplying her with many admirable suggestions, both as to the illustrations which might be introduced with the happiest effect, and the sources from whence the requisite information would best be derived. But the great labour and research necessary to the development of a plan which included the superstitions of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatries--the adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven, alluded to in the book of Job--to the still existing rites of the Hindoos--would have demanded a course of study too engrossing to be compatible with the many other claims, both domestic and literary, which daily pressed more and more upon the author’s time. The work was, therefore, laid aside; and the fragment now first published is all that remains of it, though the project was never distinctly abandoned.]

ITALIAN LITERATURE.[147]

THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI.

FROM SISMONDI’s “LITTERATURE DU MIDI.”

[147] “About this time (1820) Mrs Hemans was an occasional contributor to the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, then conducted by the Rev. Robert Morehead, whose liberal courtesy in the discharge of his editorial office associated many agreeable recollections with the period of this literary intercourse. Several of her poems appeared in the above-mentioned periodical, as also a series of papers on foreign literature, which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose compositions she ever gave to the world; and indeed to these papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordinate to the poetical translations, which it is used to introduce.”--_Memoir_, p. 41.

Vincenzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is acknowledged, by the unanimous consent of the Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is always actuated by the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthusiastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his thoughts--they are present, and clothed with life--before him, and a flexible and harmonious language is always at his command to paint them with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry is only another species of painting, he makes the art of the poet consist in rendering apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created by his imagination for himself; and he permits not a verse to escape him which does not contain an image. Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has restored to the character of Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties by which it was distinguished at its birth; and he proceeds from one picture to another with a grandeur and dignity peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, with something so lofty in his manner and style of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character should not be regulated by principles of greater consistency. In many other poets, this defect might pass unobserved: but circumstances have thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of Monti, and his glory as a poet is attached to works which display him in continual opposition to himself. Writing in the midst of the various Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen political subjects for his compositions, and he has successively celebrated opposite parties in proportion to their success. Let us suppose, in his justification, that he composes as an improvisatore, and that his feelings, becoming highly excited by the given theme, he seizes the political ideas it suggests, however foreign they may be to his individual sentiments.[148] In these political poems--the object and purport of which are so different--the invention and manner are, perhaps, but too similar. The _Basvigliana_, or poem on the death of Basville, is the most celebrated; but, since its appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who always imitated Dante, has now also very frequently imitated himself.

Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put to death at Rome by the people, for attempting, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite a sedition against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was then the poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the Republic, supposes that, at the moment of Basville’s death, he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the condemnation which his philosophical principles had merited. But, as a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for the pains of purgatory, he is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse France until the crimes of that country have received their due chastisement, and doomed to contemplate the misfortunes and reverses to which he has contributed by assisting to extend the progress of the Revolution.

An angel of heaven conducts Basville from province to province, that he may behold the desolation of his lovely country. He then conveys him to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings and death of Louis XVI., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her king. The poem concludes before the issue of the contest is known. It is divided into four cantos of three hundred lines each, and written in _terza rima_, like the poem of Dante. Not only many expressions, epithets, and lines are borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. An angel conducts Basville through the suffering world; and this faithful guide, who consoles and supports the _spectator-hero_ of the poem, acts precisely the same part which is performed by Virgil in Dante. Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, exactly as Dante would have done. Monti has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary character--he describes him as feeling more pity than remorse--and he seems to forget, in thus identifying himself with his hero, that he has at first represented Basville, and perhaps without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolutionist. The _Basvigliana_ is, perhaps, more remarkable than any other poem for the majesty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and the richness of its colouring. In the first canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body:--

“Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes, Rest thou in deep and undisturb’d repose; Till at the last great day, from slumber’s bed, Heaven’s trumpet-summons shall awake the dead.

“Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower, And soft the breeze’s wing, till that dread hour; Nor let the wanderer passing o’er thee, breathe Words of keen insult to the dust beneath.

“Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre, There live no flames of vengeance or of ire; And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore Where mercy’s home hath been from days of yore.”

Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried, Then turn’d to follow its celestial guide; But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, A lingering step, and oft reverted eye-- As when a child’s reluctant feet obey Its mother’s voice, and slowly leave its play.

Night o’er the earth her dewy veil had cast, When from th’ Eternal City’s towers they pass’d, And rising in their flight, on that proud dome, Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome, Lo! where a cherub-form sublimely tower’d, But dreadful in his glory! Sternly lower’d Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem’d Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour beam’d On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven, Seen in the dread, o’erwhelming visions given To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire Seem’d his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire; And his loose tresses, floating as he stood, A comet’s glare, presaging woe and blood. He waved his sword--its red, terrific light With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night; While his left hand sustain’d a shield so vast, Far o’er the Vatican beneath was cast Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom O’er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar; And while, all trembling at the whirlwind’s roar, Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest, Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast, They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high Breaks not their calm and proud security.

In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with his angelic guide, at the moment preceding the execution of Louis XVI.

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies Look’d fraught with omens, as to harmonise With his pale aspect. Through the forest round Not a leaf whisper’d--and the only sound That broke the stillness was a streamlet’s moan Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone, As if a storm within the woodland bowers Were gathering. On they moved--and lo! the towers Of a far city! Nearer now they drew; And all reveal’d, expanding on their view, The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes-- Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose!

In the dark mantle of a cloud array’d, Viewless and hush’d, the angel and the shade Enter’d that evil city. Onward pass’d The heavenly being first, with brow o’ercast And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies. Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw That alter’d aspect, and, in breathless awe, Mark’d the strange silence round. The deep-toned swell Of life’s full tide was hush’d; the sacred bell, The clamorous anvil, mute; all sounds were fled Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe, Inquiring glances, rumours whisper’d low, Questions half-utter’d, jealous looks that keep A fearful watch around, and sadness deep That weighs upon the heart; and voices, heard At intervals, in many a broken word-- Voices of mothers, trembling as they press’d Th’ unconscious infant closer to their breast; Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs, On their own thresholds striving to detain Their fierce impatient lords; but weak and vain Affection’s gentle bonds, in that dread hour Of fate and fury--Love hath lost his power! For evil spirits are abroad, the air Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there, Fired by that thirst for victims which of old Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll’d, Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey The deepest crime that e’er hath dimm’d the day. Blood, human blood, hath stain’d their vests and hair, On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare, Scattering red showers around them! Flaming brands And serpent scourges in their restless hands Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high The steel, th’ envenom’d bowl; and, hurrying by, With touch of fire contagious fury dart Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain’d no more, Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour; From every heart affrighted mercy flies, While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. Then the earth trembles, as from street to street The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze, Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas Heard at the dead of midnight; or the moan Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone Of the far thunder! Then what feelings press’d, O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast; What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold Death’s awful banner to the winds unfold! To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high-- The dark impatience of the murderer’s eye, Eager for crime! And he, the great, the good, Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood Dragg’d to a felon’s death! Yet still his mien, Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene; And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved! Where have you borne your monarch?--He who loved-- Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale, Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil; The misty air is silent, as in dread, And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o’erspread; While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest, Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest.

* * * * *

In that dread moment, to the fatal pile The regal victim came; and raised the while His patient glance, with such an aspect high, So firm, so calm, in holy majesty, That e’en th’ assassins’ hearts a moment shook Before the grandeur of that kingly look; And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew’d, Ran through the bosoms of the multitude.

* * * * *

Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last, Pray’d till the bitterness of death was past-- E’en for his murderers pray’d, in that dark hour When his soul yielded to affliction’s power, And the winds bore his dying cry abroad-- “Hast thou forsaken me, my God! my God?”-- E’en thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose, Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes-- “To Thee my spirit I commend,” he cried; “And my lost people, Father! be their guide!”

* * * * *

But the sharp steel descends--the blow is given, And answer’d by a thunder-peal from heaven; Earth, stain’d with blood, convulsive terrors owns, And her kings tremble on their distant thrones!

[148] The observation of a French author (_Le Censeur du Dictionnaire des Girouettes_) on the general versatility of poets, seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that it might almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of such an application.--“Le cerveau d’un poète est d’une cire molle et flexible, où s’imprime naturellement tout ce qui le flatte, le séduit, et l’alimente. La muse du chant n’a pas de partie; c’est une étourdie sans conséquence, qui folâtre également et sur de riches gazons et sur d’arides bruyères. Un poète en délire chante indifféremment Titus et Thamask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suède et Stanchon la Vielleuse.”

THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI.

The _Alcestis_ of Alfieri is said to have been the last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which his former works present so few examples. It would appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writings bear witness to that “fever at the core,” that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth was consumed; but the poetry of _Alcestis_ must find its echo in every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, however, though entirely domestic, is not for a moment allowed to languish; nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the mainspring of the

## action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The

character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination the calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this analogy.

The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author, even in his most celebrated productions. It is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, as the severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon the melody of the original language.

## ACT I.--Scene II.

Alcestis, Pheres.

_Alc._ Weep thou no more! O monarch, dry thy tears! For know, he shall not die; not now shall fate Bereave thee of thy son.

_Phe._ What mean thy words? Hath then Apollo--is there then a hope?

_Alc._ Yes! hope for _thee_--hope by the voice announced From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield To other lips the tidings, meet alone For thee to hear from mine.

_Phe._ But say! oh! say, Shall then my son be spared?

_Alc._ He shall, to _thee_. Thus hath Apollo said--Alcestis thus Confirms the oracle--be thou secure.

_Phe._ O sounds of joy! He lives!

_Alc._ But not for this, Think not that e’en for _this_ the stranger Joy Shall yet revisit these devoted walls.

_Phe._ Can there be grief when from his bed of death Admetus rises? What deep mystery lurks Within thy words? What mean’st thou? Gracious heaven! Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear’st The tidings of his safety, and dost bear Transport and life in that glad oracle To his despairing sire; thy cheek is tinged With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow, To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt In troubled silence. Speak! oh, speak!

_Alc._ The gods Themselves have limitations to their power Impassable, eternal--and their will Resists not the tremendous laws of fate: Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life Of thy restored Admetus.

_Phe._ In thy looks There is expression, more than in thy words, Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what terms Can render fatal to thyself and us The rescued life of him thy soul adores?

_Alc._ O father! could my silence aught avail To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill’d Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish; And since too soon, too well it must be known, Hear it from me.

_Phe._ Throughout my curdling veins Runs a cold, deathlike horror; and I feel I am not all a father. In my heart Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, O fair and high-soul’d consort of my son! More than a daughter; and thine infant race, The cherish’d hope and glory of my age; And, unimpair’d by time, within my breast, High, holy, and unalterable love For her, the partner of my cares and joys, Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, In what suspense, what agony of fear, I wait thy words; for well, too well, I see Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries, To some one of my race.

_Alc._ Death hath his rights, Of which not e’en the great Supernal Powers May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, Already seized, the noble victim lay, The heir of empire, in his glowing prime And noonday, struck:--Admetus, the revered, The bless’d, the loved, by all who own’d his sway-- By his illustrious parents, by the realms Surrounding his--and oh! what need to add, How much by his Alcestis?--Such was he, Already in th’ unsparing grasp of death Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence Hath snatch’d him, and another in his stead, Though not an equal--(who can equal him?) Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. Another, of his lineage or to him By closest bonds united, must descend To the dark realm of Orcus in _his_ place, Who thus alone is saved.

_Phe._ What do I hear? Woe to us, woe!--what victim?--who shall be Accepted in his stead?

_Alc._ The dread exchange E’en now, O father! hath been made; the prey Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him For whom ’tis freely offer’d. Nor wilt thou, O mighty goddess of th’ infernal shades! Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, Disdain the victim.

_Phe._ All prepared the prey! And to our blood allied! Oh, heaven!--and yet Thou had’st me weep no more!

_Alc._ Yes! thus I said, And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep Thy son’s, nor I deplore my husband’s doom. Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard, Than those _his_ death had caused.--With some few tears, But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, E’en while the involuntary tribute lasts, The victim shall be honour’d who resign’d Life for Admetus.--Would’st thou know the prey, The vow’d, the willing, the devoted one, Offer’d and hallow’d to th’ infernal gods, Father!--’tis I.

_Phe._ What hast thou done? Oh, heaven! What hast thou done? And think’st thou he is saved By such a compact? Think’st thou he can live Bereft of thee?--Of thee, his light of life, His very soul!--Of thee, beloved far more Than his loved parents--than his children more-- More than himself? Oh no! it shall not be? _Thou_ perish, O Alcestis! in the flower Of thy young beauty!--perish, and destroy Not him, not _him_ alone, but us, but all, Who as a child adore thee! Desolate Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. And think’st thou not of those whose tender years Demand thy care?--thy children! think of them! O thou, the source of each domestic joy, Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives, His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die While I can die for thee! Me, me alone, The oracle demands--a wither’d stem, Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. My race is run--the fulness of my years, The faded hopes of age, and all the love Which hath its dwelling in a father’s heart, And the fond pity, half with wonder blent, Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts So richly is endow’d;--all, all unite To grave in adamant the just decree, That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live! Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis--live! Ne’er, ne’er shall woman’s youthful love surpass An aged sire’s devotedness.

_Alc._ I know Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love; Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain Strove to anticipate their high resolves. But if in silence I have heard thy words, Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own They may not be withstood.

_Phe._ What canst thou say Which I should hear? I go, resolved to save Him who with thee would perish;--to the shrine E’en now I fly.

_Alc._ Stay, stay thee! ’tis too late. Already hath consenting Proserpine, From the remote abysses of her realms, Heard and accepted the terrific vow Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, To death. And I am firm, and well I know None can deprive me of the awful right That vow hath won.

* * * * *

Yes! thou mayst weep my fate, Mourn for me, father! but thou canst not blame My lofty purpose. Oh! the more endear’d My life by every tie--the more I feel Death’s bitterness, the more my sacrifice Is worthy of Admetus. I descend To the dim shadowy regions of the dead A guest more honour’d....

In thy presence here Again I utter’d the tremendous vow, Now more than half fulfill’d. I feel, I know, Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins Th’ insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o’er. The Monarch of the Dead hath heard--he calls, He summons me away--and thou art saved, O my Admetus!

In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to complete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proserpine’s statue. The following scene ensues between her and Admetus.

_Alc._ Here, O my faithful handmaids! at the feet Of Proserpine’s dread image spread my couch; For I myself e’en now must offer here The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile, My children! seek your sire. Behold him there, Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins Health’s genial current flows once more, as free As in his brightest days: and he shall live-- Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, And with your innocent encircling arms Twine round him fondly.

_Eum._ Can it be indeed, Father, loved father! that we see thee thus Restored? What joy is ours!

_Adm._ There is no joy! Speak not of joy! Away, away! my grief Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more! I know not of affection, and I feel No more a father.

_Eum._ Oh! what words are these? Are we no more thy children? Are we not Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around his neck More close; he must return the fond embrace.

_Adm._ O children! O my children! to my soul Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, That pierce it to the quick. I can no more Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound Of your soft accents but too well recalls The voice which was the music of my life. Alcestis! my Alcestis!--was she not Of all her sex the flower? Was woman e’er Adored like her before? Yet this is she, The cold of heart, th’ ungrateful, who hath left Her husband and her infants! This is she, O my deserted children! who at once Bereaves you of your parents.

_Alc._ Woe is me! I hear the bitter and reproachful cries Of my despairing lord. With life’s last powers, Oh! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach, My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence, That he may hear and see me.

_Adm._ Is it thou? And do I see thee still? and com’st thou thus To comfort me, Alcestis? Must I hear The dying accents _thus_? Alas! return To thy sad couch--return! ’tis meet for me There by thy side for ever to remain.

_Alc._ For me thy care is vain. Though meet for thee--

_Adm._ O voice! O looks of death! are these, are _these_, Thus darkly shrouded with mortality, The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life Of my fond soul? Alas! how faint a ray Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once, Upon my drooping brow! How heavily, With what a weight of death thy languid voice Sinks on my heart! too faithful far, too fond. Alcestis! thou art dying--and for me!

* * * * *

Alcestis! and thy feeble hand supports With its last power, supports my sinking head, E’en now, while death is on thee! Oh! the touch Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart. I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine, The image of yon ruthless Deity, Impatient for her prey. Before thy death, There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall.

* * * * *

Vain is each obstacle--in vain the gods Themselves would check my fury. I am lord Of my own days--and thus I swear----

_Alc._ Yes! swear, Admetus! for thy children to sustain The load of life. All other impious vows, Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchain’d, Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not, It is from them the inspiration flows Which in my language breathes? They lend me power, They bid me through thy strengthen’d soul transfuse High courage, noble constancy. Submit, Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm; Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme To which I now approach, from whom but thee Should comfort be derived? Afflict me not, In such an hour, with anguish worse than death. O faithful and beloved, support me still!

The choruses with which this tragedy is interspersed are distinguished for their melody and classic beauty. The following translation will give our readers a faint idea of the one by which the third act is concluded.

_Alc._ My children! all is finish’d. Now, farewell! To thy fond care, O Pheres! I commit My widow’d lord: forsake him not.

_Eum._ Alas! Sweet mother! wilt thou leave us? From thy side Are we for ever parted?

_Phe._ Tears forbid All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense, More lifeless than the dying victim, see The desolate Admetus. Farther yet, Still farther, let us bear him from the sight Of his Alcestis.

_Alc._ O my handmaids! still Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose With sacred modesty these torpid limbs When death’s last pang is o’er.

_Chorus._

Alas! how weak Her struggling voice! that last keen pang is near. Peace, mourners, peace! Be hush’d, be silent, in this hour of dread! Our cries would but increase The sufferer’s pang; let tears unheard be shed, Cease, voice of weeping, cease! Sustain, O friend! Upon thy faithful breast, The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest! And thou assistance lend To close the languid eye, Still beautiful in life’s last agony. Alas, how long a strife! What anguish struggles in the parting breath, Ere yet immortal life Be won by death! Death! death! thy work complete! Let thy sad hour be fleet, Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh! No more keen pangs impart To her, the high in heart, Th’ adored Alcestis, worthy ne’er to die.

_Chorus of Admetus._

’Tis not enough, oh no! To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes; Still must our silent band Around him watchful stand, And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, That his ear catch not grief’s funereal cries. Yet, yet hope is not dead, All is not lost below, While yet the gods have pity on our woe. Oft when all joy is fled, Heaven lends support to those Who on its care in pious hope repose. Then to the blessed skies Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. Pray! bow the knee, and pray! What other task have mortals, born to tears, Whom fate controls with adamantine sway? O ruler of the spheres! Jove! Jove! enthroned immortally on high, Our supplication hear! Nor plunge in bitterest woes Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye But as a child, which only knows Its father to revere.

IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA;

A TRAGEDY.

BY ALESSANDRO MANZONI.

Francesco Bussone, the son of a peasant in Carmagnola, from whence his _nom-de-guerre_ was derived, was born in the year 1390. Whilst yet a boy, and employed in the care of flocks and herds, the lofty character of his countenance was observed by a soldier of fortune, who invited the youth to forsake his rustic occupations, and accompany him to the busier scenes of the camp. His persuasions were successful, and Francesco entered with him into the service of Facino Cane, Lord of Alessandria. At the time when Facino died, leaving fourteen cities acquired by conquest to Beatrice di Tenda, his wife, Francesco di Carmagnola was amongst the most distinguished of his captains. Beatrice afterwards marrying Philip Visconti, Duke of Milan, (who rewarded her by an ignominious death for the regal dowery she had conferred upon him,) Carmagnola entered his army at the same time; and having, by his eminent services, firmly established the tottering power of that prince, received from him the title of Count, and was placed at the head of all his forces. The natural caprice and ingratitude of Philip’s disposition, however, at length prevailed; and Carmagnola, disgusted with the evident proof of his wavering friendship and doubtful faith, left his service and his territories, and after a variety of adventures took refuge in Venice. Thither the treachery of the Duke pursued him, and emissaries were employed to procure his assassination. The plot, however, proved abortive, and Carmagnola was elected captain-general of the Venetian armies, during the league formed by that republic against the Duke of Milan. The war was at first carried on with much spirit and success, and the battle of Maclodio, gained by Carmagnola, was one of the most important and decisive actions of those times. The night after the combat, the victorious soldiers gave liberty to almost all their prisoners. The Venetian envoys having made a complaint on this subject to the Count, he inquired what was become of the captives; and upon being informed that all, except four hundred, had been set free, he gave orders that the remaining ones also should be released immediately, according to the custom which prevailed amongst the armies of those days, the object of which was to prevent a speedy termination of the war. This proceeding of Carmagnola’s occasioned much distrust and irritation in the minds of the Venetian rulers; and their displeasure was increased when the armada of the Republic, commanded by Il Trevisani, was defeated upon the Po, without any attempt in its favour having been made by the Count. The failure of their attempt upon Cremona was also imputed to him as a crime; and the Senate, resolving to free themselves from a powerful chief, now become an object of suspicion, after many deliberations on the best method of carrying their designs into effect, at length determined to invite him to Venice, under pretence of consulting him on their negotiations for peace. He obeyed their summons without hesitation or mistrust, and was every where received with extraordinary honours during the course of his journey. On his arrival at Venice, and before he entered his own house, eight gentlemen were sent to meet him, by whom he was escorted to St Mark’s Place. When he was introduced into the ducal palace, his attendants were dismissed, and informed that he would be in private with the Doge for a considerable time. He was arrested in the palace, then examined by the Secret Council, put to the torture, which a wound he had received in the service of the Republic rendered still more agonising, and condemned to death. On the 5th May 1432 he was conducted to execution, with his mouth gagged, and beheaded between the two columns of St Mark’s Place. With regard to the innocence or guilt of this distinguished character, there exists no authentic information. The author of the tragedy, which we are about to analyse, has chosen to represent him as entirely innocent, and probability at least is on this side. It is possible, that the haughtiness of an aspiring warrior, accustomed to command, and impatient of control, might have been the principal cause of offence to the Venetians; or perhaps their jealousy was excited by his increasing power over the minds of an obedient army; and, not considering it expedient to displace him, they resolved upon his destruction.

This tragedy, which is formed upon the model of the English and German drama, comprises the history of Carmagnola’s life, from the day on which he was made commander of the Venetian armies to that of his execution, thus embracing a period of about seven years. The extracts we are about to present to our readers, will enable them to form their own opinion of a piece which has excited so much attention in Italy. The first act opens in Venice, in the hall of the Senate. The Doge proposes that the Count di Carmagnola should be consulted on the projected league between the Republic and the Florentines, against the Duke of Milan. To this all agree; and the Count is introduced. He begins by justifying his conduct from the imputations to which it might be liable, in consequence of his appearing as the enemy of the Prince whom he had so recently served:--

----He cast me down From the high place my blood had dearly won; And when I sought his presence, to appeal For justice there, ’twas vain! My foes had form’d Around his throne a barrier: e’en my life Became the mark of hatred; but in this Their hopes have fail’d--I gave them not the time. My life!--I stand prepared to yield it up On the proud field, and in some noble cause For glory well exchanged; but not a prey, Not to be caught ignobly in the toils Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtain’d With you a place of refuge; yet e’en here His snares were cast around me. Now all ties Are broke between us; to an open foe, An open foe I come.

He then gives counsel in favour of war, and retires, leaving the Senate engaged in deliberation. War is resolved upon, and he is elected commander. The fourth scene represents the house of Carmagnola. His soliloquy is noble; but its character is much more that of English than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, without difficulty, to the celebrated monologue of Hamlet.

A leader--or a fugitive? To drag Slow years along in idle vacancy, As a worn veteran living on the fame Of former deeds--to offer humble prayers And blessings for protection--owing all Yet left me of existence to the might Of other swords, dependent on some arm Which soon may cast me off; or on the field To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life Rush proudly through my veins--to hail again My lofty star, and at the trumpet’s voice To wake! to rule! to conquer!--Which must be My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling Still poorly to ignoble safety here, Secluded as a homicide, who cowers Within a temple’s precincts? Shall not he Who made a kingdom’s fate, control his own! Is there not one among the many lords Of this divided Italy--not one With soul enough to envy that bright crown Encircling Philip’s head? And know they not ’Twas won by me from many a tyrant’s grasp, Snatch’d by my hand, and placed upon the brow Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize On him who best shall call the prowess forth Which slumbers in my arm?

Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, now arrives, and announces to him that war is resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the command of the armies, at the same time advising him to act with caution towards his enemies in the Republic.

_Car._ Think’st thou I know not whom to deem my foes? Ay, I could number all.

_Mar._ And know’st thou, too, What fault hath made them such? ’Tis that thou art So high above them: ’tis that thy disdain Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one Hath done thee wrong; but who, when so resolved, Finds not his time to injure? In thy thoughts, Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs; But they remember _thee_. The high in soul Scorn and forget; but to the grovelling heart There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not; Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own. I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul Revolts indignantly--thou know’st it well: But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet For the most lofty nature,--there is power Of winning meaner minds, without descent From the high spirit’s glorious eminence,-- And would’st thou seek that magic, it were thine.

The first scene of the second act represents part of the Duke of Milan’s camp near Maclodio. Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, a Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberating upon the state of the war. Pergola considers it imprudent to give battle, Malatesti is of a contrary opinion. They are joined by Sforza and Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action, and Torello, who endeavours to convince them of its inexpediency.

_Sfo._ Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul Which fires each soldier’s eye?

_Tor._ I mark’d it well. I heard th’ impatient shout, th’ exulting voice Of Hope and Courage; and I turn’d aside, That on my brow the warrior might not read Th’ involuntary thought whose sudden gloom Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought, That this vain semblance of delusive joy Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought On wasted valour doom’d to perish here.

* * * * *

For these--what boots it to disguise the truth?-- These are no wars in which, for all things loved, And precious, and revered--for all the ties Clinging around the heart--for those whose smile Makes home so lovely--for his native land, And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights! These are no wars in which the chieftain’s aim Is but to station his devoted bands, And theirs, thus fix’d--to die! It is _our_ fate To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on; But if delay’d, if between flight and death Pausing they stand--is there no cause to doubt What choice were theirs? And but too well our hearts That choice might here foresee. Oh! evil times, When for the leader care augments, the more Bright glory fades away! Yet once again, This is no field for us.

After various debates, Malatesti resolves to attack the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes of the second act represent the tent of the Count in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for battle. And here a magnificent piece of lyric poetry is introduced, in which the battle is described, and its fatal effects lamented with all the feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears to us, however, that this ode, hymn, or chorus as the author has entitled it, striking as its effect may be in a separate recitation, produces a much less powerful impression in the situation it occupies at present. It is even necessary, in order to appreciate its singular beauty, that it should be re-perused, as a thing detached from the tragedy. The transition is too violent, in our opinion, from a tragic action, in which the characters are represented as clothed with existence, and passing before us with all their contending motives and feelings laid open to our inspection, to the comparative coldness of a lyric piece, where the author’s imagination expatiates alone. The poet may have been led into this error by a definition of Schlegel’s, who, speaking of the Greek choruses, gives it as his opinion, that “the chorus is to be considered as a personification of the moral thoughts inspired by the action--as the organ of the poet, who speaks in the name of the whole human race. The chorus, in short, is the _ideal_ spectator.”

But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek chorus was composed of _real_ characters, and expressed the sentiments of the people before whose eyes the action was imagined to be passing: thus the _true_ spectator, after witnessing in representation the triumphs or misfortunes of kings and heroes, heard from the chorus the idea supposed to be entertained on the subject by the more enlightened part of the multitude. If the author, availing himself of his talent for lyric poetry, and varying the measure in conformity to the subject, had brought his chorus into action--introducing, for example, a veteran looking down upon the battle from an eminence, and describing its vicissitudes to the persons below, with whom he might interchange a variety of national and moral reflections--it appears to us that the dramatic effect would have been considerably heightened, and the assertion that the Greek chorus is not compatible with the system of the modern drama possibly disapproved. We shall present our readers with the entire chorus of which we have spoken, as a piece to be read separately, and one to which the following title would be much more appropriate.

_The Battle of Maclodio (or Macalo.) An Ode._

Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s sound, A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies! On every side hoarse echoes from the ground To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, Hollow and deep--and banners, all around, Meet hostile banners waving to the skies; Here steel-clad bands in marshall’d order shine, And there a host confronts their glittering line.

Lo! half the field already from the sight Hath vanish’d, hid by closing groups of foes! Swords crossing swords flash lightning o’er the fight, And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows! Oh! who are these? What stranger in his might Comes bursting on the lovely land’s repose? What patriot hearts have nobly vow’d to save Their native soil, or make its dust their grave?

One race, alas! these foes--one kindred race, Were born and rear’d the same fair scenes among! The stranger calls them brothers--and each face That brotherhood reveals;--one common tongue Dwells on their lips--the earth on which we trace Their heart’s blood is the soil from whence they sprung. One mother gave them birth--this chosen land, Circled with Alps and seas by Nature’s guardian hand.

Oh, grief and horror! who the first could dare Against a brother’s breast the sword to wield? What cause unhallow’d and accursed, declare, Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? Think’st thou they know?--they but inflict and share Misery and death, the motive unreveal’d! --Sold to a leader, sold _himself_ to die, With him they strive--they fall--and ask not why.

But are there none who love them? Have they none-- No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, And win with tears the husband and the son Back to his home, from this polluted scene? And they whose hearts, when life’s bright day is done, Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, Thoughts of the tomb--why cannot _they_ assuage The storms of passion with the voice of age?

Ask not!--the peasant at his cabin-door Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud Which skirts th’ horizon, menacing to pour Destruction down o’er fields he hath not plough’d. Thus, where no echo of the battle’s roar Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd In tranquil safety number o’er the slain, Or tell of cities burning on the plain.

There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze Fix’d on his mother’s lips, intent to know, By names of insult, those whom future days Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe. There proudly many a glittering dame displays Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn.

Woe to the victors and the vanquish’d! woe! The earth is heap’d, is loaded with the slain; Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow-- A sea of blood is swelling o’er the plain. But from th’ embattled front, already, lo! A band recedes--it flies--all hope is vain, And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, Wake to the love, the clinging love of life.

As the light grain disperses in the air, Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, Thus fly the vanquish’d in their wild despair, Chased, sever’d, scatter’d, o’er the ample ground. But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, Burst on their flight; and hark! the deepening sound Of fierce pursuit!--still nearer and more near, The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear.

The day is won! They fall--disarm’d they yield, Low at the conqueror’s feet all suppliant lying! Midst shouts of victory pealing o’er the field, Ah! who may hear the murmurs of the dying? Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal’d! E’en now the courier to his steed is flying, He spurs--he speeds--with tidings of the day, To rouse up cities in his lightning way.

Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, O eager multitudes! around him pressing? Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams, Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing! Know ye not _whence_ th’ ill-omen’d herald comes, And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?-- Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold,-- Be ye content! the glorious tale is told.

I hear the voice of joy, th’ exulting cry! They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains: E’en now the homicides assail the sky With pæans, which indignant heaven disdains! But from the soaring Alps the stranger’s eye Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, Numbers the mighty, stretch’d in death below.

Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true! Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys suspending. Th’ invader comes: your banners raise anew, Rush to the strife, your country’s call attending! Victors! why pause ye?--Are ye weak and few?-- Ay! such he deem’d you, and for _this_ descending, He waits you on the field ye know too well, The same red war-field where your brethren fell.

O thou devoted land! that canst not rear In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won, The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear Too narrow still for each contending son; Receive the stranger, in his fierce career

## Parting thy spoils! Thy chastening is begun!

And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword, Foes whom thou ne’er hadst wrong’d sit proudly at thy board.

Are these infatuate too!--Oh! who hath known A people e’er by guilt’s vain triumph blest? The wrong’d, the vanquish’d, suffer not alone, Brief is that joy that swells th’ oppressor’s breast. What though not yet his day of pride be flown, Though yet heaven’s vengeance spare his haughty crest, Well hath it mark’d him--and decreed the hour, When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power.

Are we not creatures of one hand divine, Form’d in one mould, to one redemption born? Kindred alike where’er our skies may shine, Where’er our sight first drank the vital morn? Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine, And woe to him by whom that bond is torn! Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth, Who bows down spirits of immortal birth!

The third act, which passes entirely in the tent of the Count, is composed of long discourses between Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys. One of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after his victory, which he haughtily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave the field until he has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses. Another complains that the Condottieri and the soldiers have released their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an established military custom; and, sending for the remaining four hundred captives, he gives them their liberty also. This act, which terminates with the suspicious observations of the envoys on Carmagnola’s conduct, is rather barren of interest, though the episode of the younger Pergola, which we shall lay before our readers, is happily imagined.

As the prisoners are departing, the Count observes the younger Pergola, and stops him.

_Car._ Thou art not, youth! One to be number’d with the vulgar crowd. Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest Thou minglest, and art silent!

_Per._ Silence best, O chief! befits the vanquish’d.

_Car._ Bearing up Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved Worthy a better star. Thy name?

_Per._ ’Tis one Whose heritage doth impose no common task On him that bears it; one which to adorn With brighter blazonry were hard emprise: My name is Pergola.

_Car._ And art thou, then, That warrior’s son?

_Per._ I am.

_Car._ Approach! embrace Thy father’s early friend! What thou art now I was when first we met. Oh! thou dost bring Back on my heart remembrance of the days, The young, and joyous, and adventurous days, Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou! My dawn, ’tis true, with brighter omens smiled, But still fair Fortune’s glorious promises Are for the brave; and, though delay’d awhile, She soon or late fulfils them. Youth! salute Thy sire for me; and say, though not of _thee_ I ask’d it, yet my heart is well assured He counsell’d not this battle.

_Per._ Oh! he gave Far other counsels, but his fruitless words Were spoken to the winds.

_Car._ Lament thou not. Upon his chieftain’s head the shame will rest Of this defeat; and he who firmly stood Fix’d at his post of peril hath begun A soldier’s race full nobly. Follow me, I will restore thy sword.

The fourth act is occupied by the machinations of the Count’s enemies at Venice; and the jealous and complicated policy of that Republic, and the despotic authority of the Council of Ten, are skilfully developed in many of the scenes.

The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice in the hall of the Council of Ten. Carmagnola is consulted by the Doge on the terms of peace offered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is received with disdain, and, after various insults, he is accused of treason. His astonishment and indignation at this unexpected charge are expressed with all the warmth and simplicity of innocence.

_Car._ A traitor! I!--that name of infamy Reaches not me. Let him the title bear Who best deserves such meed--it is not mine. Call me a dupe, and I may well submit, For such my part is here; yet would I not Exchange that name, for ’tis the worthiest still. A traitor!--I retrace in thought the time When for your cause I fought; ’tis all one path Strew’d o’er with flowers. Point out the day on which A traitor’s deeds were mine; the day which pass’d Unmark’d by thanks, and praise, and promises Of high reward! What more? Behold me here! And when I came to seeming honour call’d, When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith-- Of trusting faith!--Oh, no! Doth he who comes Th’ invited guest of friendship dream of faith? I came to be ensnared! Well! it is done, And be it so! but since deceitful hate Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, Praise be to heaven! an open field at least Is spread before us. Now ’tis yours to speak, Mine to defend my cause; declare ye then My treasons!

_Doge._ By the secret college soon All shall be told thee.

_Car._ I appeal not there. What I have done for you hath all been done In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not Be told in darkness. Of a warrior’s deeds Warriors alone should judge; and such I choose To be mine arbiters--my proud defence Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear.

_Doge._ The time for choice is past.

_Car._ What! Is there force Employ’d against me?--Guards! (_raising his voice._)

_Doge._ They are not nigh. Soldiers! (_enter armed men._) Thy guards are these.

_Car._ I am betray’d!

_Doge._ ’Twas then a thought of wisdom to disperse Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem’d That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised, Might prove a rebel too.

_Car._ E’en as ye list. Now be it yours to charge me.

_Doge._ Bear him hence, Before the secret college.

_Car._ Hear me yet One moment first. That ye have doom’d my death I well perceive; but with that death ye doom Your own eternal shame. Far o’er these towers, Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats The banner of the Lion, in its pride Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know _I_ bore it thus to empire. _Here_, ’tis true, No voice will speak men’s thoughts; but far beyond The limits of your sway, in other scenes, Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach’d, Which is your sceptre’s attribute, my deeds And your reward will live in chronicles For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect Your annals, and the future! Ye will need A warrior soon, and who will then be yours? Forget not, though your captive now I stand, I was not born your subject. No! my birth Was midst a warlike people, one in soul, And watchful o’er its rights, and used to deem The honour of each citizen its own. Think ye this outrage will be there unheard? There is some treachery here. Our common foes Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know I have been faithful still. There yet is time.

_Doge._ The time is past. When thou didst meditate Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy Those destined to chastise it; then the hour Of foresight should have been.

_Car._ O mean in soul! And dost thou dare to think a warrior’s breast For worthless life can tremble? Thou shalt soon Learn how to die. Go! When the hour of fate On thy vile couch o’ertakes thee, thou wilt meet Its summons with far other mien than such As I shall bear to ignominious death.

## Scene II.--_The House of Carmagnola._

Antonietta, Matilda.

_Mat._ The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet My father comes not!

_Ant._ Ah! thou hast not learn’d, By sad experience, with how slow a pace Joys ever come; expected long, and oft Deceiving expectation! while the steps Of grief o’ertake us ere we dream them nigh. But night is past, the long and lingering hours Of hope deferr’d are o’er, and those of bliss Must soon succeed. A few short moments more, And he is with us. E’en from this delay I augur well. A council held so long Must be to give us peace. He will be ours. Perhaps for years our own.

_Mat._ O mother! thus My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, And days in all the sickness of suspense, Our anxious love hath pass’d. It is full time That each sad moment, at each rumour’d tale, Each idle murmur of the people’s voice, We should not longer tremble, that no more This thought should haunt our souls--E’en now, perchance, He for whom thus your hearts are yearning--dies!

_Ant._ Oh! fearful thought--but vain and distant now! Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief. Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led In triumph midst the noble and the brave, Thy glorious father to the temple bore The banners won in battle from his foes?

_Mat._ A day to be remember’d!

_Ant._ By his side Each seem’d inferior. Every breath of air Swell’d with his echoing name; and we, the while Station’d on high and sever’d from the throng, Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all, While, with the tide of rapture half o’erwhelm’d, Our hearts beat high, and whisper’d--“We are his.”

_Mat._ Moments of joy!

_Ant._ What have we done, my child, To merit such? Heaven, for so high a fate, Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow Inscribed a lofty name--a name so bright, That he to whom thou bear’st the gift, whate’er His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark For envy is the glory of our lot! And we should weigh its joys against these hours Of fear and sorrow.

_Mat._ They are past e’en now. Hark! ’twas the sound of oars!--it swells--’tis hush’d! The gates unclose. O mother! I behold A warrior clad in mail--he comes, ’tis he!

_Ant._ Whom should it be if not himself?--my husband!

(_She comes forward._)

(_Enter_ Gonzaga _and others._)

_Ant._ Gonzaga!--Where is he we look’d for? Where? Thou answer’st not! Oh, heaven! thy looks are fraught With prophecies of woe!

_Gon._ Alas! too true The omens they reveal!

_Mat._ Of woe to whom?

_Gon._ Oh! why hath such a task of bitterness Fallen to my lot?

_Ant._ Thou wouldst be pitiful, And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense; Speak! I adjure thee, in the name of God! Where is my husband?

_Gon._ Heaven sustain your souls With fortitude to bear the tale! My chief----

_Mat._ Is he return’d unto the field?

_Gon._ Alas! Thither the warrior shall return no more. The senate’s wrath is on him. He is now A prisoner!

_Ant._ He is a prisoner!--and for what?

_Gon._ He is accused of treason.

_Mat._ Treason! _He_ A traitor!--Oh! my father!

_Ant._ Haste! proceed, And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all. Say, what shall be his sentence?

_Gon._ From my lips It shall not be reveal’d.

_Ant._ Oh! he is slain!

_Gon._ He lives, but yet his doom is fix’d.

_Ant._ He lives! Weep not, my daughter! ’tis the time to act. For pity’s sake, Gonzaga, be thou not Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. He was thy friend--ah! haste, then, be our guide; Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child! Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left Mercy upon the earth. Yes! they themselves Are husbands, they are fathers! When they sign’d The fearful sentence, they remember’d not _He_ was a father and a husband too. But when their eyes behold the agony One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will melt: They will, they must revoke it. Oh! the sight Of mortal woe is terrible to man! Perhaps the warrior’s lofty soul disdain’d To vindicate his deeds, or to recall His triumphs won for them. It is for us To wake each high remembrance. Ah! we know That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, And we will pray.

_Gon._ Oh, heaven! that I could leave Your hearts one ray of hope! There is no ear, No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt Falls heavy, and the hand by which ’tis launch’d Is veil’d in clouds. There is one comfort still, The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart. Oh! fearful is the trial, but the God Of mourners will be with you.

_Mat._ Is there not One hope?

_Ant._ Alas! my child!

## Scene IV.--_A Prison._

Carmagnola.

They must have heard it now.--Oh! that at least I might have died far from them! Though their hearts Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, The solemn hour of nature’s parting pangs Had then been past. It meets us darkly now, And we must drain its draught of bitterness Together, drop by drop. O ye wide fields, Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms! O proud delights of danger! Battle-cries, And thou, my war-steed! and ye trumpet-notes Kindling the soul! Midst your tumultuous joys Death seem’d all beautiful.--And must I then, With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate Be dragg’d, e’en as a felon, on the winds Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints? And Marco! hath he not betray’d me too? Vile doubt! That I could cast it from my soul Before I die!--But no! What boots it now Thus to look back on life with eye that turns To linger where my footstep may not tread? Now, Philip! thou wilt triumph! Be it so! I too have proved such vain and impious joys, And know their value now. But oh! again To see those loved ones, and to hear the last, Last accents of their voices! By those arms Once more to be encircled, and from thence To tear myself for ever!--Hark! they come!-- O God of mercy, from thy throne look down In pity on their woes!

## Scene V.

Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, _and_ Carmagnola.

_Ant._ My husband!

_Mat._ O my father!

_Ant._ Is it thus That thou returnest? and is this the hour Desired so long!

_Car._ O ye afflicted ones! Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death, And calmly wait his time. For you alone My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then, Deprive me of its aid? When the Most High On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows The courage to sustain them. Oh! let yours Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy In this embrace: ’tis still a gift of heaven. Thou weep’st, my child! and thou, beloved wife! Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flow’d on In peace and gladness; I united thee To my disastrous fate, and now the thought Embitters death! Oh! that I had not seen The woes I cause thee!

_Ant._ Husband of my youth! Of my bright days, thou who didst make them bright, Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there, And yet e’en now--I would not but be thine.

_Car._ Full well I know how much I lose in thee; Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now.

_Mat._ The homicides!

_Car._ No, sweet Matilda, no! Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb These moments--they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, That, e’en midst all the fulness of our woe, High, holy joy remains. Death! death!--our foes, Our most relentless foes, can only speed Th’ inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not Invented death for man; it would be _then_ Madd’ning and insupportable: from heaven ’Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs With such blest comfort as no mortal power Can give or take away. My wife! my child! Hear my last words--they wring your bosoms now With agony, but yet, some future day, ’Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife! Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr’d girl Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, Conduct her to thy kindred: she is theirs, Of their own blood--and they so loved thee once! Then, to their foe united, thou becamest Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds Of Carmagnola’s and Visconti’s names. But to their bosoms thou wilt now return A mourner; and the object of their hate Will be no more.--Oh! there is joy in death!-- And thou, my flower! that, midst the din of arms, Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest’s rage Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. I feel thy burning tears upon my breast-- I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know’st That the forsaken have a Father still On high. Confide in Him, and live to days Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour’d The torrent of affliction on thy youth, If to thy future years be not reserved All His benign compassion! Live! and soothe Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms Of no ignoble consort lead thee still!-- Gonzaga! take the hand which thou hast press’d Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith To guide and guard these mourners, till they join Their friends and kindred?

_Gon._ Rest assured, I will.

_Car._ I am content. And if, when this is done, Thou to the field returnest, there for me Salute my brethren; tell them that I died Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds, Hast read my inmost thoughts--and know’st it well. Tell them I never with a traitor’s shame Stain’d my bright sword. Oh, never!--I myself Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart, And banners proudly waving in the air,-- Think of thine ancient comrade! And the day Following the combat, when upon the field, Amidst the deep and solemn harmony Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, With lifted hands, is offering for the slain His sacrifice to heaven; forget me not! For I, too, hoped upon the battle-plain E’en so to die.

_Ant._ Have mercy on us, heaven!

_Car._ My wife! Matilda! Now the hour is nigh, And we must part.--Farewell!

_Mat._ No, father! no!

_Car._ Come to this breast yet, yet once more, and then For pity’s sake depart!

_Ant._ No! force alone Shall tear us hence.

(_A sound of arms is heard._)

_Mat._ Hark! what dread sound!

_Ant._ Great God!

(_The door is half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of whom advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless._)

_Car._ O God! I thank thee. O most merciful! Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs Of this dread moment’s conflict! Thou, my friend, Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe, And tell them, when their eyes again unclose To meet the day--that naught is left to fear.

Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention which this tragedy has excited in Italy must be principally attributed to the boldness of the author in so completely emancipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted themselves to those rules has been sufficiently remarkable to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for the courage of the writer who should attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of several years, and that, too, in days so troubled and so “full of fate”--days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting interests--there is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of incident, as if “to be born and die” made all the history of aspiring natures contending for supremacy. The character of the hero is portrayed in words, not in actions; it does not unfold itself in any struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and the interest excited for him only commences at the moment when it ought to have reached its climax. The merits of the piece may be summed up in the occasional energy of the language and dignity of the thoughts; and the truth with which the spirit of the age is characterised, as well in the development of that suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the Venetian government, as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of war--

“Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel.”

CAIUS GRACCHUS.

A TRAGEDY,

BY MONTI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Ful._ Few, few, but valiant hearts!

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

_Ful._ It is fulfill’d.

_Caius._ And how?

_Ful._ Thou shalt be told.

_Caius._ Explain thy words.

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

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

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

_Caius._ No! True friendship never!

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

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

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

_Caius._ I understand thee not

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

_Caius._ Stay!

_Ful._ And wherefore?

_Caius._ To reveal thy meaning.

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

This conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Cornelia, with the wife and child of Caius. They are about to seek an asylum in the house of Emilianus, by whom Cornelia has been warned of the imminent danger which menaces the family of her son from the fury of the patricians, who intend, on the following day, to abrogate the laws enacted by the Gracchi in favour of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of Gracchus, on thus meeting with his family, may appear somewhat inconsistent with his having remained so long engaged in political discussion, on the threshold of their abode, without ever having made an inquiry after their welfare; but it would be somewhat unreasonable to try the conduct of a Roman (particularly in a tragedy) by the laws of _nature_. Before, however, we are disposed to condemn the principles which seem to be laid down for the delineation of Roman character in dramatic poetry, let us recollect that the general habits of the people whose institutions gave birth to the fearful grandeur displayed in the

## actions of the elder Brutus, and whose towering spirit was fostered to

enthusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even their virtues. Shakspeare alone, without compromising the dignity of his Romans, has disencumbered them of the formal scholastic drapery which seems to be their _official_ garb, and has stamped their features with the general attributes of human nature, without effacing the impress which distinguished “the men of iron,” from the nations who “stood still before them.”

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

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

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

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

(_Fulvius enters._)

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

_Ful._ Ask’st thou me?

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

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

_Caius._ Then he was slain by thee?

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

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

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

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

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

_Caius._ And what hast thou to say?

_Ful._ That which I now suppress.

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

_Ful._ I know not.

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

_Ful._ Thou dost well.

_Caius._ What saidst thou?

_Ful._ Nothing.

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

_Ful._ Insensate! ask me not.

_Caius._ I must be told.

_Ful._ Away!--thou wilt repent.

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

_Ful._ Thou wilt? Ask then thy sister.

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

PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS.

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

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

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

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

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

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

CARLO MARIA MAGGI.

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

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

ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI.

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

ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI.

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

FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI.

THE SHORE OF AFRICA.

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

JEU-D’ESPRIT ON THE WORD “BARB.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_.

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

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

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

Shakspeare.

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

Earl of Surrey’s _Poems_.

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

Shakspeare’s _Sonnets_.

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

Cowley.

THE FEVER DREAM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DARTMOOR.

A PRIZE POEM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[153]

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

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

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

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

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

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

WELSH MELODIES.

THE HARP OF WALES.

INTRODUCTORY STANZAS, INSCRIBED TO THE RUTHIN WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS.

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

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

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

THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.[161]

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

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

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

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

[161] The “Green Islands of Ocean,” or “Green Spots of the Floods,” called in the _Triads_ “Gwerddonan Llion,” (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chieftain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to discover these islands; but they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.--See W. O. Pughe’s _Cambrian Biography_; also _Cambro-Briton_, i. 124.

THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN.[162]

Watch ye well! The moon is shrouded On her bright throne; Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, Waves make wild moan. ’Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing, And gay songs and wine-cups flowing; But of winds, in darkness blowing, O’er seas unknown!

In the dwellings of our fathers, Round the glad blaze, Now the festive circle gathers With harps and lays; Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, Steps are bounding, bards are singing, --Ay! the hour to all is bringing Peace, joy, or praise.

Save to us, our night-watch keeping, Storm-winds to brave, While the very sea-bird sleeping Rests in its cave! Think of us when hearths are beaming, Think of us when mead is streaming, Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming On the dark wave!

[162] See note to the “Green Isles of Ocean.”

THE HIRLAS HORN.

Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave[163] When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea; And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave, The dragons of battle, the sons of the free! To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight, A beam, like heaven’s lightning,[164] flash’d over the field; To those who came rushing as storms in their might, Who have shiver’d the helmet, and cloven the shield; The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar, When lances were red from the harvest of war.

Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill For the lords of the field in their festival’s hour, And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill That bursts o’er the rock in the pride of its power: Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn Of honour and mirth,[165] for the conflict is o’er; And round let the golden-tipp’d hirlas be borne To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd’s fair shore, Who rush’d to the field where the glory was won, As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun. Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled! Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose, Their lot shall be lovely--renown to the dead! While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown’d-- So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound. The free winds of Maelor[166] shall swell with their name, And Owain’s rich hirlas be fill’d to their fame.

[163] “Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold.”--From the _Hirlas Horn_ of Owain Cyfeiliog.

[164] “Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, where fire flashed out of their spears?”--From the same.

[165] “Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn--badge of honour and mirth.”--From the same.

[166] Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to the modern division.

THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;[167] I weep, for the grave has extinguish’d its light; The beam of the lamp from its summit is o’er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill! Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, Nor let e’en an echo recall what hath been!

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there! Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board? --The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour’d!

The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, Since he is departed whose smile made it bright! I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!

[167]

“The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without bed-- I must weep awhile, and then be silent.

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without being lighted-- Be thou encircled with spreading silence!

* * * * *

The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night, Since he that own’d it is no more-- Ah Death! it will be but a short time he will leave me.

The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night, On the top of the rock of Hydwyth, Without its lord, without company, without the circling feasts!” Owen’s _Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen_.

THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN.

[Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, supposed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically laments in one of his poems. These are still extant; and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity and beauty.--See _Cambrian Biography_, and Owen’s _Heroic Elegies and other poems of Llywarch Hen_.]

The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb! Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave? Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps surrounding? --My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!

Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream! Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,[168] Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight’s glad beam; Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping! --O grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed, When valour’s high heart on thy bosom is sleeping, When youth’s glorious flower is gone down to the dead!

Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, As on to the fields of your glory ye trode! Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing, Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod![169] I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not, O my lovely! my brave! When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, I turn from heaven’s light, for it smiles on your grave![170]

[168] “What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now.”

[169]

“Four and twenty sons to me have been Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes.” _Elegies of Llywarch Hen._

The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards.

[170]

“Hardly has the snow covered the vale, When the warriors are hastening to the battle; I do not go, I am hinder’d by infirmity.” _Elegies of Llywarch Hen._

GRUFYDD’S FEAST.

[“Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the English successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from them an honourable peace, made a great feast at his palace in _Ystrad Tywi_ to celebrate this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he invited all who would come in peace from _Gwynedd_, _Powys_, the _Deheubarth_, Glamorgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors; with every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song; thus patronising the poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards sent away all those who had excelled in them with honourable gifts.”--_Cambrian Biography._]

Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave, By the bright festal torches around us that wave! Set open the gates of the prince’s wide hall, And hang up the chief’s ruddy spear on the wall! There is peace in the land we have battled to save: Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high,[171] That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!

Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight, With the bees sunny nectar now sparkle in light;[172] Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crown’d, For the strong hearts in combat that leap’d at its sound! Like the billows’ dark swell was the path of their might, Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high, That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!

And wake ye the children of song from their dreams, On Maelor’s wild hills and by Dyfed’s fair streams![173] Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free, Which shall flow down the waves of long ages to be. Sheath the sword which hath given them unperishing themes, And pour the bright mead: let the wine-cup foam high, That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!

[171] Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in the poems of the ancient British bards.

[172] The horn was used for two purposes--to sound the alarm in war, and to drink the mead at feasts.

[173] Dyfed, (said to signify a land abounding with streams of water,) the modern Pembrokeshire.

THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.

When the last flush of eve is dying On boundless lakes afar that shine; When winds amidst the palms are sighing, And fragrance breathes from every pine:[174] When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming, And fire-flies wander bright and free, Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, My thoughts, wild Cambria! dwell with thee!

Alone o’er green savannas roving, Where some broad stream in silence flows, Or through th’ eternal forests moving, One only home my spirit knows! Sweet land, whence memory ne’er hath parted! To thee on sleep’s light wing I fly; But happier could the weary-hearted Look on his own blue hills and die!

TALIESIN’S PROPHECY.

[A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the ancient Britons is still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following effect:--

“Their God they shall worship, Their language they shall retain, Their land they shall lose, Except wild Wales.”]

A voice from time departed yet floats thy hills among, O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung: “The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul, The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll, A light the depths revealing hath o’er my spirit pass’d, A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast, And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung.

“Green island of the mighty![175] see thine ancient race Driven from their fathers’ realm to make the rocks their dwelling-place! I see from Uthyr’s[176] kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a fine of bards and chiefs and princely men decay. But long as Arvon’s mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, And wear the crown to which is given dominion o’er the storms, So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung!”

[174] The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been mentioned by travellers.

[175] _Ynys y Cedeirn_, or Isle of the Mighty--an ancient name given to Britain.

[176] Uthyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposed to have been the father of Arthur.

OWEN GLYNDWR’S WAR-SONG.

Saw ye the blazing star?[177] The heavens look’d down on freedom’s war, And lit her torch on high! Bright on the dragon crest[178] It tells that glory’s wing shall rest, When warriors meet to die! Let earth’s pale tyrants read despair And vengeance in its flame; Hail ye, my bards! the omen fair Of conquest and of fame, And swell the rushing mountain air With songs to Glendwr’s name.

At the dead hour of night, Mark’d ye how each majestic height Burn’d in its awful beams? Red shone th’ eternal snows, And all the land, as bright it rose, Was full of glorious dreams! O eagles of the battle,[179] rise! The hope of Gwynedd wakes![180] It is your banner in the skies Through each dark cloud which breaks, And mantles with triumphal dyes Your thousand hills and lakes!

A sound is on the breeze, A murmur as of swelling seas! The Saxon on his way! Lo! spear and shield and lance, From Deva’s waves, with lightning glance, Reflected to the day! But who the torrent-wave compels A conqueror’s chain to bear? Let those who wake the soul that dwells On our free winds, beware! The greenest and the loveliest dells May be the lion’s lair!

Of us _they_ told, the seers, And monarch bards of elder years, Who walk’d on earth as powers! And in their burning strains, A spell of might and mystery reigns, To guard our mountain-towers! --In Snowdon’s caves a prophet lay:[181] Before his gifted sight, The march of ages pass’d away With hero-footsteps bright; But proudest in that long array, Was Glendwr’s path of light!

[177] The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazing star, which the bards interpreted as an omen favourable to the cause of Glendwr. It served to infuse spirit into the minds of a superstitious people, the first success of their chieftain confirmed this belief, and gave new vigour to their actions.--Pennant.

[178] Owen Glendwr styled himself the _Dragon_; a name he assumed in imitation of Uthyr, whose victories over the Saxons were foretold by the appearances of a star with a dragon beneath, which Uthyr used as his badge; and on that account it became a favourite one with the Welsh.--Pennant.

PRINCE MADOC’S FAREWELL.

Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep? Too fair is the sight for a wand’rer, whose way Lies far o’er the measureless worlds of the deep! Fall, shadows of twilight! and veil the green shore, That the heart of the mighty may waver no more!

Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land Where the harp’s lofty soul on each wild wind is borne? Be hush’d, be forgotten! for ne’er shall the hand Of minstrel with melody greet my return. --No! no!--let your echoes still float on the breeze, And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas!

’Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; Away! we will bear over ocean and earth A name and a spirit that never shall die. My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign; But my soul’s quenchless fire, O my country! is thine.

[179] “Bring the horn to Tudwrou, _the Eagle of Battles_.”--See the _Hirlas Horn_ of Owain Cyfeiliog. The eagle is a very favourite image with the ancient Welsh poets.

[180] Gwynedd, (pronounced Gwyneth,) North Wales.

[181] Merlin, or Merddin Emrys, is said to have composed his prophecies on the future lot of the Britons, amongst the mountains of Snowdon. Many of these, and other ancient prophecies, were applied by Glyndwr to his own cause, and assisted him greatly in animating the spirit of his followers.

CASWALLON’S TRIUMPH.

[Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme command of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the purpose of opposing Cæsar, under the title of Elected Chief of Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of Rome might have made on the Britons in the first instance, the subsequent departure of Cæsar they considered as a cause of triumph; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an assembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing.--_Cambrian Biography._]

From the glowing southern regions, Where the sun-god makes his dwelling, Came the Roman’s crested legions O’er the deep, round Britain swelling. The wave grew dazzling as he pass’d, With light from spear and helmet cast; And sounds in every rushing blast Of a conqueror’s march were telling.

But his eagle’s royal pinion, Bowing earth beneath its glory, Could not shadow with dominion Our wild seas and mountains hoary! Back from their cloudy realm it flies, To float in light through softer skies; Oh! chainless winds of heaven arise! Bear a vanquish’d world the story!

Lords of earth! to Rome returning, Tell how Britain combat wages, How Caswallon’s soul is burning When the storm of battle rages! And ye that shrine high deeds in song, O holy and immortal throng! The brightness of his name prolong, As a torch to stream through ages!

HOWEL’S SONG.

[Howel ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard of the fourteenth century. A beautiful poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. The ruins of Myfanwy’s residence, Castle Dinas Brân, may yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.]

Press on, my steed! I hear the swell[182] Of Valle Crucis’ vesper-bell, Sweet floating from the holy dell O’er woods and waters round. Perchance the maid I love, e’en now, From Dinas Brân’s majestic brow, Looks o’er the fairy world below, And listens to the sound!

I feel her presence on the scene! The summer air is more serene, The deep woods wave in richer green, The wave more gently flows! O fair as ocean’s curling foam![183] Lo! with the balmy hour I come-- The hour that brings the wanderer home, The weary to repose!

Haste! on each mountain’s darkening crest The glow hath died, the shadows rest, The twilight star on Deva’s breast Gleams tremulously bright; Speed for Myfanwy’s bower on high! Though scorn may wound me from her eye, Oh! better by the sun to die, Than live in rayless night!

[182] “I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry-flower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong long-hamm’d steed of Alban reached the summit of the high land of Brân.”

[183] “My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves!... I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is bright as the flowers of the hawthorn!”--Howel’s _Ode to Myfanwy_.

THE MOUNTAIN FIRES.

[“The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (_Coelcerthi_) on November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and had reference originally to the _Alban Elved_, or new-year.”--_Cambro-Briton._

When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly picturesque.]

Light the hills! till heaven is glowing As with some red meteor’s rays! Winds of night, though rudely blowing, Shall but fan the beacon-blaze. Light the hills! till flames are streaming From Yr Wyddfa’s sovereign steep,[184] To the waves round Mona gleaming, Where the Roman track’d the deep!

Be the mountain watch-fires heighten’d, Pile them to the stormy sky! Till each torrent-wave is brighten’d, Kindling as it rushes by. Now each rock, the mist’s high dwelling, Towers in reddening light sublime; Heap the flames! around them telling Tales of Cambria’s elder time.

Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted, Many a solemn vigil kept, When, in ages long departed, O’er the noble dead they wept. In the winds we hear their voices-- “Sons! though yours a brighter lot, When the mountain-land rejoices, Be her mighty unforgot!”

ERYRI WEN.

[“Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, as Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida by the Cretans. It is still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that of Lord of Snowdon.”--Pennant.]

Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill, With heaven’s own azure crown’d! Who call’d thee--what thou shalt be still, White Snowdon!--holy ground.

_They_ fabled not, thy sons who told Of the dread power enshrined Within thy cloudy mantle’s fold, And on thy rushing wind!

It shadow’d o’er thy silent height, It fill’d thy chainless air, Deep thoughts of majesty and might For ever breathing there.

Nor hath it fled! the awful spell Yet holds unbroken sway, As when on that wild rock it fell Where Merddin Emrys lay![185]

Though from their stormy haunts of yore Thine eagles long have flown,[186] As proud a flight the soul shall soar Yet from thy mountain-throne!

Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams! And make the snows thy crest! The sunlight of immortal dreams Around thee still shall rest.

Eryri! temple of the bard! And fortress of the free! Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, Their spirit dwells with thee!

[184] Yr Wyddfa, the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mean the _conspicuous place_, or _object_.

[185] Dinas Emrys, (the fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated rock amongst the mountains of Snowdon, is said to be so called from having been the residence of Merddin Emrys, called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosius, the celebrated prophet and magician: and there, tradition says, he wrote his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons.

There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, on the ascent of Snowdon, called _Maen du yr Arddu_, the black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were to sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find himself endowed with the gift of poetry, and the other would become insane.--Williams’s _Observations on the Snowdon Mountains_.

[186] It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these mountains, that eagles have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, though very rarely, amongst the precipices.--Williams’s _Observations on the Snowdon Mountains_.

CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.[187]

Raise ye the sword! let the death-stroke be given; Oh! swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven! So shall our spirits be free as our strains-- The children of song may not languish in chains!

Have ye not trampled our country’s bright crest? Are heroes reposing in death on her breast? Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow, And think ye that still we would linger below?

Rest, ye brave dead! midst the hills of your sires, Oh! who would not slumber when freedom expires? Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain-- The children of song may not breathe in the chain!

[187] This sanguinary deed is not attested by any historian of credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none of the bardic productions since the time of Edward make any allusion to such an event.--_Cambro-Briton_, vol. i., p. 195.

THE DYING BARD’S PROPHECY.[188]

The hall of harps is lone to-night, And cold the chieftain’s hearth: It hath no mead, it hath no light; No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

The bow lies broken on the floor Whence the free step is gone; The pilgrim turns him from the door Where minstrel-blood hath stain’d the threshold stone.

“And I, too, go: my wound is deep, My brethren long have died; Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!

“Bear it where, on his battle-plain, Beneath the setting sun, He counts my country’s noble slain-- Say to him--Saxon, think not _all_ is won.

“Thou hast laid low the warrior’s head, The minstrel’s chainless hand: Dreamer! that numberest with the dead The burning spirit of the mountain-land!

“Think’st thou, because the song hath ceased, The soul of song is flown? Think’st thou it woke to crown the feast, It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone?

“No! by our wrongs, and by our blood! We leave it pure and free; Though hush’d awhile, that sounding flood Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.

“We leave it midst our country’s woe-- The birthright of her breast; We leave it as we leave the snow Bright and eternal on Eryri’s crest.

We leave it with our fame to dwell Upon our children’s breath; Our voice in theirs through time shall swell-- The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.

He dies; but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent’s tide; And this is yet Aneurin’s[189] land-- Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!

[188] At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards by Edward the First.

[189] Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards.

THE FAIR ISLE.[190]

FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE “WELSH GROUND.”

[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy’s country; and, while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called _Unbennaeth Prydain_, the Monarchy of Britain. It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained.--Jones’s _Historical Account of the Welsh Bards_.]

[190] Ynys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, and signifies _fair_ or _beautiful isle_.