II.

Ages may roll ere your children regain The land for which heroes have perish’d in vain; Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power, Around her still gathering in glory’s full hour. Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.

CHORUS.

Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle.

THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS.

[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.]

I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud; Around it for ever deep music is swelling, The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. ’Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan; Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming; And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.

I lay there in silence--a spirit came o’er me; Man’s tongue hath no language to speak what I saw; Things glorious, unearthly, pass’d floating before me, And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe. I view’d the dread beings around us that hover, Though veil’d by the mists of mortality’s breath; And I call’d upon darkness the vision to cover, For a strife was within me of madness and death.

I saw them--the powers of the wind and the ocean, The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms; Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion-- I _felt_ their dim presence, but knew not their forms! I saw them--the mighty of ages departed-- The dead were around me that night on the hill: From their eyes, as they pass’d, a cold radiance they darted,-- There was light on my soul, but my heart’s blood was chill.

I saw what man looks on, and dies--but my spirit Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour; And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power! Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested, And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;-- But oh! what new glory all nature invested, When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won![191]

[“The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs Hemans to the public as a song-writer, had already made their appearance. Some of them are remarkable for the melody of their numbers--in particular, the song to the well-known air, ‘Ar hyd y nos.’ Her fine feeling for music, in which, as also in drawing, she would have signally excelled, could she have bestowed the time and patient labour requisite for obtaining mastery over the mechanical difficulties of these arts, assisted her not only in her choice of measures, but also of her words; and, although in speaking of her songs, it must be remarked that some of the later ones are almost too full of meaning to require the further clothing of sweet sound, instead of their being left, as in outline, waiting for the musician’s colouring hand, they must be all praised as flowing and expressive; and it is needless to remind the reader how many of them, united with her sister’s music, have obtained the utmost popularity. She had well studied the national character of the Welsh airs, and the allusions to the legendary history of the ancient Britons, which her songs contain, are happily chosen. But it was an instinct with Mrs Hernans to catch the picturesque points of national character, as well as of national music: in the latter she always delighted.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 80-1.]

[191] Transcriber’s Note: Footnote not found for original page 153 footnote 1.

THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

[“Mrs Hemans was at this time (1821) occupied in the composition of her tragedy, ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ which she originally wrote without any idea of offering it for the stage. The sanguine recommendations, however, of Mr Reginald Heber, and the equally kind encouragement of Mr Milman, (to whose correspondence she was introduced through the medium of a mutual friend, though she had never the advantage of his personal acquaintance,) induced her to venture upon a step which her own diffidence would have withheld her from contemplating, but for the support of such high literary authorities. Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed upon the tragedy by all who read it, and most especially by the critics of the green-room, whose imprimatur might have been supposed a sufficiently safe guarantee of success, her own anticipations, throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between its acceptance and representation, were far more modified than those of her friends. In this subdued tone of feeling she thus wrote to Mr Milman:--‘As I cannot help looking forward to the day of trial with much more of dread than of sanguine expectation, I most willingly acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice in having the respite as much prolonged as possible. I begin almost to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind encouragement I have received from you and Mr Reginald Heber, should be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any outlet of escape, than in attempting to overcome the difficulties which seem to obstruct my onward path.’”--_Memoir_, p. 81-2.]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Count di Procida. Raimond di Procida, _his Son_. Eribert, _Viceroy_. De Couci. Montalba. Guido. Alberti. Anselmo, _a Monk_.

Vittoria. Constance, _Sister to Eribert_.

_Nobles_, _Soldiers_, _Messengers_, _Vassals_, _Peasants_, &c. &c. Scene--_Palermo_.

## ACT I.

## Scene I.--_A Valley, with vineyards and cottages._

_Groups of Peasants_--Procida, _disguised as a Pilgrim, among them_.

_1st Pea._ Ay, this was wont to be a festal time In days gone by! I can remember well The old familiar melodies that rose At break of morn, from all our purple hills, To welcome in the vintage. Never since Hath music seem’d so sweet. But the light hearts Which to those measures beat so joyously, Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice Of joy through all the land.

_2d Pea._ Yes! there are sounds Of revelry within the palaces, And the fair castles of our ancient lords, Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear From _thence_ the peals of song and laughter rise At midnight’s deepest hour.

_3d Pea._ Alas! we sat, In happier days, so peacefully beneath The olives and the vines our fathers rear’d, Encircled by our children, whose quick steps Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe’er The storm might gather. But this yoke of France Falls on the peasant’s neck as heavily As on the crested chieftain’s. We are bow’d E’en to the earth.

_Pea’s Child._ My father, tell me when Shall the gay dance and song again resound Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days Of which thou’rt wont to tell the joyous tale?

_1st Pea._ When there are light and reckless hearts once more In Sicily’s green vales. Alas, my boy! Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl, To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside The weight of work-day care: they meet to speak Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts They dare not breathe aloud.

_Pro._ (_from the background._) Ay, it is well So to relieve th’ o’erburthen’d heart, which pants Beneath its weight of wrongs; but better far In silence to avenge them!

_An Old Pea._ What deep voice Came with that startling tone?

_1st Pea._ It was our guest’s, The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourn’d here Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well: He hath a stately bearing, and an eye Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien accords Ill with such vestments. How he folds around him His pilgrim-cloak, e’en as it were a robe Of knightly ermine! That commanding step Should have been used in courts and camps to move. Mark him!

_Old Pea._ Nay, rather mark him not; the times Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?

_A Youth._ He spoke of vengeance!

_Old Pea._ Peace! we are beset By snares on every side, and we must learn In silence and in patience to endure. Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death.

_Pro._ (_coming forward indignantly._) The word is death! And what hath life for _thee_, That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing! Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, And stamp’d with servitude. What! is it life Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice Into low fearful whispers, and to cast Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e’en then, Strangers should catch its echo?--Is there aught In _this_ so precious, that thy furrow’d cheek Is blanch’d with terror at the passing thought Of hazarding some few and evil days, Which drag thus poorly on?

_Some of the Peas._ Away, away! Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence.

_Pro._ Why, what is danger? Are there deeper ills Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain’d The cup of bitterness till naught remains To fear or shrink from--therefore, be ye strong! Power dwelleth with despair. Why start ye thus At words which are but echoes of the thoughts Lock’d in your secret souls? Full well I know There is not one among you but hath nursed Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make One conflict of his life. I know _thy_ wrongs-- And thine--and thine; but if within your breast There is no chord that vibrates to _my_ voice, Then fare ye well.

_A Youth_ (_coming forward._) No, no! say on, say on! There are still free and fiery hearts e’en here, That kindle at thy words.

_Pea._ If that indeed Thou hast a hope to give us----

_Pro._ There is hope For all who suffer with indignant thoughts Which work in silent strength. What! think ye heaven O’erlooks the oppressor, if he bear awhile His crested head on high? I tell you, no! Th’ avenger will not sleep. It was an hour Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king, Our young brave Conradin, in life’s fair morn On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less Is Justice throned above; and her good time Comes rushing on in storms: that royal blood Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth, And hath been heard. The traces of the past Fade in _man’s_ heart, but ne’er doth heaven forget.

_Pea._ Had we but arms and leaders, we are men Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these, What wouldst thou have us do?

_Pro._ Be vigilant; And when the signal wakes the land, arise! The peasant’s arm is strong, and there shall be A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well.

[_Exit_ Procida.

_1st Pea._ This man should be a prophet: how he seem’d To read our hearts with his dark searching glance And aspect of command! and yet his garb Is mean as ours.

_2d Pea._ Speak low; I know him well. At first his voice disturb’d me, like a dream Of other days; but I remember now His form, seen oft when in my youth I served Beneath the banners of our kings! ’Tis he Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long, The Count di Procida.

_Pea._ And is this he? Then heaven protect him! for around his steps Will many snares be set.

_1st Pea._ He comes not thus But with some mighty purpose--doubt it not; Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved True to our native princes. But away! The noontide heat is past, and from the seas Light gales are wandering through the vineyards; now We may resume our toil.

_Exeunt Peasants._

## Scene II.--_The Terrace of a Castle._

Eribert, Vittoria.

_Vit._ Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart Blighted and cold?--Th’ affections of my youth Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed, And all the soft and playful tenderness Which hath its home in woman’s breast, ere yet Deep wrongs have sear’d it--all is fled from mine. Urge me no more.

_Eri._ O lady! doth the flower That sleeps entomb’d through the long wintry storms, Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring, And shall not woman’s heart, from chill despair, Wake at love’s voice?

_Vit._ Love!--make _love’s_ name thy spell, And I am strong!--the very word calls up From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array’d In arms against thee! Know’st thou _whom_ I loved, While my soul’s dwelling-place was still on earth? One who was born for empire, and endow’d With such high gifts of princely majesty, As bow’d all hearts before him! Was he not Brave, royal, beautiful? And such he died; He died!--hast thou forgotten?--And thou’rt here, Thou meet’st my glance with eyes which coldly look’d, --Coldly!--nay, rather with triumphant gaze, Upon his murder! Desolate as I am, Yet in the mien of _thine_ affianced bride, O my lost Conradin! there should be still Somewhat of loftiness, which might o’erawe The hearts of thine assassins.

_Eri._ Haughty dame! If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, Know danger is around thee: thou hast foes That seek thy ruin, and my power alone Can shield thee from their arts.

_Vit._ Provençal, tell Thy tale of danger to some happy heart Which hath its little world of loved ones round. For whom to tremble; and its tranquil joys That make earth Paradise. I stand alone; --They that are blest may fear.

_Eri._ Is there not one Who ne’er commands in vain? Proud lady, bend Thy spirit to thy fate; for know that he, Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path, O’er the bow’d neck of prostrate Sicily, Hath borne him to dominion; he, my king, Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon My deeds have well deserved; and who hath power Against his mandates?

_Vit._ Viceroy, tell thy lord That, e’en where chains lie heaviest on the land, Souls may not all be fetter’d. Oft, ere now, Conquerors have rock’d the earth, yet fail’d to tame Unto their purposes that restless fire Inhabiting man’s breast. A spark bursts forth, And so they perish! ’Tis the fate of those Who sport with lightning--and it may be his. Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free.

_Eri._ ’Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again Bethink thee, lady! Love may change--_hath_ changed To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. --Look to it yet!--To-morrow I return.

[_Exit_ Eribert.

_Vit._ To-morrow!--Some ere now have slept and dreamt Of morrows which ne’er dawn’d--or ne’er for them; So silently their deep and still repose Hath melted into death! Are there not balms In nature’s boundless realm, to pour out sleep Like this on me? Yet should my spirit still Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear To _his_ a glorious tale of his own isle, Free and avenged.--_Thou_ shouldst be now at work, In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, Through the red heaven of sunset!--sleep’st thou still, With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread The glowing vales beneath?

[Procida _enters, disguised_.

Ha! who art thou, Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step Dost steal upon me?

_Pro._ One o’er whom hath pass’d All that can change man’s aspect! Yet not long Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence. --Know’st thou _this_, lady?

[_He shows a ring._

_Vit._ Righteous heaven! the pledge Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown By him who perish’d, and whose kingly blood E’en yet is unatoned. My heart beats high-- --Oh, welcome, welcome! thou art Procida, Th’ Avenger, the Deliverer!

_Pro._ Call me so, When my great task is done. Yet who can tell If the return’d _be_ welcome? Many a heart Is changed since last we met.

_Vit._ Why dost thou gaze, With such a still and solemn earnestness, Upon my alter’d mien?

_Pro._ That I may read If to the widow’d love of Conradin, Or the proud Eribert’s triumphant bride, I now intrust my fate.

_Vit._ Thou, Procida! That _thou_ shouldst wrong me thus!--prolong thy gaze Till it hath found an answer.

_Pro._ ’Tis enough. I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change Is from death’s hue to fever’s; in the wild Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, And in thy wasted form. Ay, ’tis a deep And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, Instead of youth’s gay bloom, the characters Of noble suffering: on thy brow the same Commanding spirit holds its native state, Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed This tyrant Eribert.

_Vit._ And told it not A tale of insolent love repell’d with scorn-- Of stern commands and fearful menaces Met with indignant courage? Procida! It was but now that haughtily I braved His sovereign’s mandate, which decrees my hand, With its fair appanage of wide domains And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, To recompense his crimes.--I smiled--ay, smiled-- In proud security; for the high of heart Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, Though it be dark and lone.

_Pro._ Thou shalt not need To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words: I tell thee that a spirit is abroad Which will not slumber, till its path be traced By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live! It is most meet that thou _shouldst_ live, to see The mighty expiation; for thy heart (Forgive me that I wrong’d its faith!) hath nursed A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set Deep on thy marble brow.

_Vit._ Then thou _canst_ tell By gazing on the wither’d rose, that there Time, or the blight, hath work’d! Ay, this is in Thy vision’s scope: but oh! the things unseen, Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass Hourly o’er that mysterious world, a mind To ruin struck by grief! Yet doth my soul, Far midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, Wherein is bright vitality. ’Tis to see _His_ blood avenged, and his fair heritage, My beautiful native land, in glory risen, Like a warrior from his slumbers!

_Pro._ Hear’st thou not With what a deep and ominous moan the voice Of our great mountain swells? There will be soon A fearful burst! Vittoria! brood no more In silence o’er thy sorrows, but go forth Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still,) And let thy breath give nurture to the spark Thou’lt find already kindled. I move on In shadow, yet awakening in my path That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well.

_Vit._ When shall we meet again?--Are we not those Whom most he loved on earth, and think’st thou not _That_ love e’en yet shall bring his spirit near, While thus we hold communion?

_Pro._ Yes, I feel Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb; He shall have nobler tribute!--I must hence, But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time.

[_Exeunt separately._

## Scene III.--_The Sea-shore._

Raimond di Procida, Constance.

_Con._ There is a shadow far within your eye, Which hath of late been deepening. You were wont, Upon the clearness of your open brow, To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round Joy like our southern sun. It is not well, If some dark thought be gathering o’er your soul, To hide it from affection. Why is this? My Raimond, why is this?

_Raim._ Oh! from the dreams Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still A wild and stormy wakening? They depart-- Light after light, our glorious visions fade, The vaguely beautiful! till earth, unveil’d, Lies pale around; and life’s realities Press on the soul, from its unfathom’d depth Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts, In all their fearful strength! ’Tis ever thus, And doubly so with me; for I awoke With high aspirings, making it a curse To breathe where noble minds are bow’d, as here. --To breathe!--It is not breath!

_Con._ I know thy grief, --And is’t not mine?--for those devoted men Doom’d with their life to expiate some wild word, Born of the social hour. Oh! I have knelt, E’en at my brother’s feet, with fruitless tears, Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut Against my voice; yet will I not forsake The cause of mercy.

_Raim._ Waste not thou thy prayers, O gentle love! for them. There’s little need For pity, though the galling chain be worn By some few slaves the less. Let them depart! There is a world beyond the oppressor’s reach, And thither lies their way.

_Con._ Alas! I see That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul.

_Raim._ Pardon, belovèd Constance, if my words, From feelings hourly stung, have caught, perchance, A tone of bitterness. Oh! when thine eyes, With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are fix’d Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget All else in their soft beams; and yet I came To tell thee----

_Con._ What? What wouldst thou say? Oh speak! Thou wouldst not leave me!

_Raim._ I have cast a cloud, The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin’d fortunes, O’er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone, Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more In the clear sunny light of youth and joy, E’en as before we met--before we loved!

_Con._ This is but mockery. Well thou know’st thy love Hath given me nobler being; made my heart A home for all the deep sublimities Of strong affection; and I would not change Th’ exalted life I draw from that pure source, With all its checker’d hues of hope and fear, E’en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind! Have I deserved this?

_Raim._ Oh! thou hast deserved A love less fatal to thy peace than mine. Think not ’tis mockery! But I cannot rest To be the scorn’d and trampled thing I am In this degraded land. Its very skies, That smile as if but festivals were held Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine For freedom’s charter’d air. I would go forth To seek my noble father: he hath been Too long a lonely exile, and his name Seems fading in the dim obscurity Which gathers round my fortunes.

_Con._ Must we part? And is it come to this? Oh! I have still Deem’d it enough of joy with _thee_ to share E’en grief itself. And now! But this is vain. Alas! too deep, too fond, is woman’s love: Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves The treasures of her soul!

_Raim._ Oh, speak not thus! Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold Upon my inmost heart. I leave thee but To be more worthy of a love like thine; For I have dreamt of fame! A few short years, And we may yet be blest.

_Con._ A few short years! Less time may well suffice for death and fate To work all change on earth; to break the ties Which early love had form’d; and to bow down Th’ elastic spirit, and to blight each flower Strewn in life’s crowded path! But be it so! Be it enough to know that happiness Meets thee on other shores.

_Raim._ Where’er I roam, Thou shalt be with my soul! Thy soft low voice Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back Life’s morning freshness. Oh! that there should be Things which we love with such deep tenderness, But, through that love, to learn how much of woe Dwells in one hour like this! Yet weep thou not! We shall meet soon; and many days, dear love! Ere I depart.

_Con._ Then there’s a respite still. Days!--not a day but in its course may bring Some strange vicissitude to turn aside Th’ impending blow we shrink from. Fare thee well. (_Returning._) --Oh, Raimond! this is not our _last_ farewell! Thou wouldst not so deceive me?

_Raim._ Doubt me not, Gentlest and best beloved! we meet again.

[_Exit_ Constance.

_Raim._ (_after a pause._) When shall I breathe in freedom, and give scope To those untameable and burning thoughts, And restless aspirations, which consume My heart i’ th’ land of bondage? Oh! with you, Ye everlasting images of power And of infinity! thou blue-rolling deep, And you, ye stars! whose beams are characters Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced-- With you my soul finds room, and casts aside The weight that doth oppress her. But my thoughts Are wandering far; there should be one to share This awful and majestic solitude Of sea and heaven with me. [Procida _enters unobserved_. It is the hour He named, and yet he comes not.

_Pro._ (_coming forward._) He is here.

_Raim._ Now, thou mysterious stranger--thou, whose glance Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue Thought like a spirit, haunting its lone hours-- Reveal thyself; what art thou?

_Pro._ One whose life Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms, With still a mighty aim. But now the shades Of eve are gathering round me, and I come To this, my native land, that I may rest Beneath its vines in peace.

_Raim._ Seek’st thou for peace? This is no land of peace: unless that deep And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men’s thoughts Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien With a dull hollow semblance of repose, May so be call’d.

_Pro._ There are such calms full oft Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been So vainly school’d by fortune, and inured To shape my course on peril’s dizzy brink, That it should irk my spirit to put on Such guise of hush’d submissiveness as best May suit the troubled aspect of the times.

_Raim._ Why, then, thou’rt welcome, stranger, to the land Where most disguise is needful. He were bold Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother’s eye Doth search distrustfully the brother’s face; And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn From the same past their long remembrances, Now meet in terror, or no more; lest hearts Full to o’erflowing, in their social hour, Should pour out some rash word, which roving winds Might whisper to our conquerers. This it is, To wear a foreign yoke.

_Pro._ It matters not To him who holds the mastery o’er his spirit, And can suppress its workings, till endurance Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves To all extremes, and there is that in life To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, Even when its lofty aims are all reduced To the poor common privilege of breathing. --Why dost thou turn away?

_Raim._ What wouldst thou with me? I deem’d thee, by th’ ascendant soul which lived And made its throne on thy commanding brow, One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn So to abase its high capacities For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest. What wouldst thou with me?

_Pro._ I would counsel thee. Thou must do that which men--ay, valiant men-- Hourly submit to do; in the proud court, And in the stately camp, and at the board Of midnight revellers, whose flush’d mirth is all A strife, won hardly. Where is he whose heart Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze Of mortal eye? If vengeance wait the foe, Or fate th’ oppressor, ’tis in depths conceal’d Beneath a smiling surface.--Youth, I say, Keep thy soul down! Put on a mask!--’tis worn Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth And specious intercourse of life requires Its aid in every scene.

_Raim._ Away, dissembler! Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, Fitted to every nature. Will the free And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey? It is because I _will_ not clothe myself In a vile garb of coward semblances, That now, e’en now, I struggle with my heart, To bid what most I love a long farewell, And seek my country on some distant shore, Where such things are unknown!

_Pro._ (_exultingly._) Why, this is joy: After a long conflict with the doubts and fears, And the poor subtleties, of meaner minds, To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing Oppression hath not crush’d. High-hearted youth, Thy father, should his footsteps e’er again Visit these shores----

_Raim._ My father! what of him? Speak! was he known to thee?

_Pro._ In distant lands With him I’ve traversed many a wild, and look’d On many a danger; and the thought that thou Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, Oft through the storm hath cheer’d him.

_Raim._ Dost thou deem That still he lives? Oh! if it be in chains, In woe, in poverty’s obscurest cell, Say but he lives--and I will track his steps E’en to earth’s verge!

_Pro._ It may be that he lives, Though long his name hath ceased to be a word Familiar in man’s dwellings. But its sound May yet be heard! Raimond di Procida, Rememberest thou thy father?

_Raim._ From my mind His form hath faded long, for years have pass’d Since he went forth to exile: but a vague, Yet powerful image of deep majesty, Still dimly gathering round each thought of him, Doth claim instinctive reverence; and my love For his inspiring name hath long become Part of my being.

_Pro._ Raimond! doth no voice Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms That would enfold thee now? My son! my son!

_Raim._ Father! Oh God!--my father! Now I know Why my heart woke before thee!

_Pro._ Oh! this hour Makes hope reality; for thou art all My dreams had pictured thee!

_Raim._ Yet why so long E’en as a stranger hast thou cross’d my paths, One nameless and unknown?--and yet I felt Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice.

_Pro._ Because I would not link thy fate with I mine, Till I could hail the dayspring of that hope Which now is gathering round us. Listen, youth! _Thou_ hast told _me_ of a subdued and scorn’d And trampled land, whose very soul is bow’d And fashion’d to her chains:--but _I_ tell _thee_ Of a most generous and devoted land, A land of kindling energies; a land Of glorious recollections!--proudly true To the high memory of her ancient kings, And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast Her alien bondage off!

_Raim._ And where is this?

_Pro._ Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily! Her spirit is awake, and moving on, In its deep silence mightier, to regain Her place amongst the nations; and the hour Of that tremendous effort is at hand.

_Raim._ Can it be thus indeed? Thou pour’st new life Through all my burning veins! I am as one Awakening from a chill and deathlike sleep To the full glorious day.

_Pro._ Thou shalt hear more! Thou shalt hear things which would--which _will_, arouse The proud free spirits of our ancestors E’en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well! Be secret!--for along my destined path I yet must darkly move. Now, follow me, And join a band of men, in whose high hearts There lies a nation’s strength.

_Raim._ My noble father! Thy words have given me all for which I pined-- An aim, a hope, a purpose! And the blood Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, As a bright fountain from its icy bonds By the quick sun-stroke freed.

_Pro._ Ay, this is well! Such natures burst men’s chains!--Now follow me.

[_Exeunt._

## ACT II.

## Scene I.--_Apartment in a Palace._

Eribert, Constance.

_Con._ Will you not hear me? Oh! that they who need Hourly forgiveness--they who do but live While mercy’s voice, beyond th’ eternal stars, Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, In their vain exercise of pageant power, Hard and relentless! Gentle brother! yet ’Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven, Whose noblest joy is pardon.

_Eri._ ’Tis too late. You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads With eloquent melody--but they must die.

_Con._ What!--die!--for words?--for breath which leaves no trace To sully the pure air wherewith it blends, And is, being utter’d, gone? Why, ’twere enough For such a venial fault to be deprived One little day of man’s free heritage, Heaven’s warm and sunny light! Oh! if you deem That evil harbours in their souls, at least Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, Shall bid stem justice wake.

_Eri._ I am not one Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been Where power sits crown’d and arm’d. And, mark me, sister! To a distrustful nature it might seem Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead For these Sicilian rebels. O’er _my_ being Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note-- I have said, and they must die.

_Con._ Have you no fear?

_Eri._ Of what?--that heaven should fall?

_Con._ No!--But that earth Should arm in madness. Brother! I have seen Dark eyes bent on you, e’en midst festal throngs, With such deep hatred settled in their glance, My heart hath died within me.

_Eri._ Am I then To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look?

_Con._ Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul, Which may not speak in words, can find no way But theirs to liberty! Have not these men Brave sons or noble brothers?

_Eri._ Yes! whose name It rests with me to make a word of fear-- A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men.

_Con._ But not forgotten! Ah! beware, beware! --Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one Of that devoted band, who yet will need Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek The spring-time glow is lingering. ’Twas but now His mother left me, with a timid hope Just dawning in her breast: and I--I dared To foster its faint spark. You smile!--Oh! then He will be saved!

_Eri._ Nay, I but smiled to think What a fond fool is Hope! She may be taught To deem that the great sun will change his course To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, ’tis strange! Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus Have mock’d the boy’s sad mother: I have said-- You should not thus have _mock’d_ her!--Now, farewell!

[_Exit_ Eribert.

_Con._ O brother! hard of heart!--for deeds like these There must be fearful chastening, if on high Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell Yon desolate mother that her fair young son Is thus to perish! Haply the dread tale May slay _her_ too--for heaven is merciful. --’Twill be a bitter task!

[_Exit_ Constance.

## Scene II.--_A ruined Tower surrounded by woods._

Procida, Vittoria.

_Pro._ Thy vassals are prepared, then?

_Vit._ Yes; they wait Thy summons to their task.

_Pro._ Keep the flame bright, But hidden till this hour. Wouldst thou dare, lady, To join our councils at the night’s mid watch, In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross?

_Vit._ What should I shrink from?

_Pro._ Oh! the forest-paths Are dim and wild, e’en when the sunshine streams Through their high arches; but when powerful night Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds Of her mysterious winds; their aspect _then_ Is of another and more fearful world-- A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, Waking strange thoughts almost too much for this-- Our frail terrestrial nature.

_Vit._ Well I know All this, and more. Such scenes have been th’ abodes Where through the silence of my soul have pass’d Voices and visions from the sphere of those That have to die no more! Nay, doubt it not! If such unearthly intercourse hath e’er Been granted to our nature, ’tis to hearts Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, Unmadden’d could sustain the fearful joy And glory of its trances! At the hour Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth And air with infinite viewless multitudes, I will be with thee, Procida.

_Pro._ Thy presence Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls Of suffering and indignant men, arouse That which may strengthen our majestic cause With yet a deeper power. Know’st thou the spot?

_Vit._ Full well. There is no scene so wild and lone, In these dim woods, but I have visited Its tangled shades.

_Pro._ At midnight, then, we meet.

[_Exit_ Procida.

_Vit._ Why should I fear? Thou wilt be with me--thou, Th’ immortal dream and shadow of my soul, Spirit of him I love! that meet’st me still In loneliness and silence; in the noon Of the wild night, and in the forest depths, Known but to me; for whom thou giv’st the winds And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, Till my heart faints with that o’erthrilling joy! --Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame That thou art unavenged!

[_Exit_ Vittoria.

## Scene III.--_A Chapel, with a monument on which is laid a

sword._--_Moonlight._

Procida, Raimond, Montalba.

_Mon._ And know you not my story?

_Pro._ In the lands Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs Were number’d with our country’s; but their tale Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. I would fain hear it now.

_Mon._ Hark! while you spoke, There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, Which even like death came o’er me. ’Twas a night Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, And swift wild shadows floating o’er the earth, Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years Of battle and captivity, I spurr’d My good steed homewards. Oh! what lovely dreams Rose on my spirit! There were tears and smiles, But all of joy! And there were bounding steps, And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love Doth twine so fondly round the warrior’s neck When his plumed helm is doff’d.--Hence, feeble thoughts! --I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine!

_Raim._ And were they realised?

_Mon._ Youth! ask me not, But listen! I drew near my own fair home-- There was no light along its walls, no sound Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower’s height At my approach, although my trampling steed Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were thrown All open. Then my heart misgave me first, And on the threshold of my silent hall I paused a moment, and the wind swept by With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced My soul e’en now! I call’d--my struggling voice Gave utterance to my wife’s, my children’s names. They answer’d not. I roused my failing strength, And wildly rush’d within.--And they were there.

_Raim._ And was all well?

_Mon._ Ay, well!--for death is well: And they were all at rest! I see them yet, Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail’d To stay the assassin’s arm!

_Raim._ Oh, righteous Heaven! Who had done this?

_Mon._ Who!

_Pro._ Canst thou question, _who?_ Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds, In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, But those whose yoke is on us?

_Raim._ Man of woe! What words hath pity for despair like thine?

_Mon._ Pity!--fond youth!--My soul disdains the grief Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies To ask a vain companionship of tears, And so to be relieved!

_Pro._ For woes like these There is no sympathy but vengeance.

_Mon._ None! Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts Might catch the spirit of the scene! Look round! We are in th’ awful presence of the dead; Within yon tomb _they_ sleep whose gentle blood Weighs down the murderer’s soul. _They_ sleep!--but I Am wakeful o’er their dust! I laid my sword, Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, As on an altar; and the eternal stars, And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, No more to wield it save in one great cause-- The vengeance of the grave! And now the hour Of that atonement comes!

[_He takes the sword from the tomb._

_Raim._ My spirit burns! And my full heart almost to bursting swells. --Oh, for the day of battle!

_Pro._ Raimond, they Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die, --But not in battle.

_Raim._ How, my father?

_Pro._ No! Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach Another lesson. But the appointed hour Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band, Noble Montalba?

_Mon._ Leave me for a time, That I may calm my soul by intercourse With the still dead, before I mix with men And with their passions. I have nursed for years, In silence and in solitude, the flame Which doth consume me; and it is not used Thus to be look’d or breathed on. Procida! I would be tranquil--or appear so--ere I join your brave confederates. Through my heart There struck a pang--but it will soon have pass’d.

_Pro._ Remember!--in the cavern by the cross. Now follow me, my son.

[_Exeunt_ Procida _and_ Raimond.

_Mon._ (_after a pause, leaning on the tomb._) Said he, “_My son_?” Now, why should this man’s life Go down in hope, thus resting on a son, And I be desolate? How strange a sound Was that--“_my son_!” I had a boy, who might Have worn as free a soul upon his brow As doth this youth. Why should the thought of _him_ Thus haunt me? When I tread the peopled ways Of life again, I shall be pass’d each hour By fathers with their children, and I must Learn calmly to look on. Methinks ’twere now A gloomy consolation to behold All men bereft as I am! But away, Vain thoughts!--One task is left for blighted hearts, And it shall be fulfill’d.

_Exit_ Montalba.

## Scene IV.--_Entrance of a Cave, surrounded by rocks and forests._ _A

rude Cross seen among the rocks._

Procida, Raimond.

_Pro._ And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies Of midnight, and in solitary caves, Where the wild forest creatures make their lair-- Is’t thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold The councils of their country?

_Raim._ Why, such scenes In their primeval majesty, beheld Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire Far deeper thoughts than pillar’d halls, wherein Statesmen hold weary vigils. Are we not O’ershadow’d by that Etna, which of old With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay Through tyrants’ hearts, and bade them seek a home In other climes? Hark! from its depths, e’en now, What hollow moans are sent!

_Enter_ Montalba, Guido, _and other Sicilians_.

_Pro._ Welcome, my brave associates! We can share The wolf’s wild freedom here! Th’ oppressor’s haunt Is not midst rocks and caves. Are we all met?

_Sicilians._ All, all!

_Pro._ The torchlight, sway’d by every gust, But dimly shows your features.--Where is he Who from his battles had return’d to breathe Once more without a corslet, and to meet The voices and the footsteps and the smiles Blent with his dreams of home? Of that dark tale The rest is known to vengeance! Art thou here, With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, Childless Montalba?

_Mon._ (_advancing._) He is at thy side. Call on that desolate father in the hour When his revenge is nigh.

_Pro._ Thou, too, come forth, From thine own halls an exile! Dost thou make The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still, While hostile banners o’er thy rampart walls Wave their proud blazonry?

_1st Sicilian._ Even so. I stood Last night before my own ancestral towers An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat On my bare head. What reck’d it? There was joy Within, and revelry; the festive lamps Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs I’ th’ stranger’s tongue, made mirth. They little deem’d Who heard their melodies! But there are thoughts Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows Known to the mountain echoes. Procida! Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh.

_Pro._ I knew a young Sicilian--one whose heart Should be all fire. On that most guilty day When, with our martyr’d Conradin, the flower Of the land’s knighthood perish’d; he of whom I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, Stood by the scaffold with extended arms, Calling upon his father, whose last look Turn’d full on him its parting agony. The father’s blood gush’d o’er him! and the boy Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye, And a proud flush on his young cheek, look’d up To the bright heaven.--Doth he remember still That bitter hour?

_2d Sicilian._ He bears a sheathless sword! --Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh.

_Pro._ Our band shows gallantly--but there are men Who should be with us now, had they not dared In some wild moment of festivity To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish For freedom!--and some traitor--it might be A breeze perchance--bore the forbidden sound To Eribert: so they must die--unless Fate (who at times is wayward) should select Some other victim first! But have they not Brothers or sons among us?

_Gui._ Look on me! I have a brother--a young high-soul’d boy, And beautiful as a sculptor’s dream, with brow That wears amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is A glorious creature! But his doom is seal’d With theirs of whom ye spoke; and I have knelt-- Ay, scorn me not! ’twas for his life--I knelt E’en at the viceroy’s feet, and he put on That heartless laugh of cold malignity We know so well, and spurn’d me. But the stain Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off, And _thus_ it shall be cancell’d! Call on me, When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.

_Pro._ I call upon thee _now_! The land’s high soul Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature’s hues To deeper life before it. In his chains, The peasant dreams of freedom!--Ay, ’tis thus Oppression fans th’ imperishable flame With most unconscious hands. No praise be hers For what she blindly works! When slavery’s cup O’erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant To dull our senses, through each burning vein Pours fever, lending a delirious strength To burst man’s fetters. And they _shall_ be burst! I have hoped, when hope seem’d frenzy; but a power Abides in human will, when bent with strong Unswerving energy on one great aim, To make and rule its fortunes! I have been A wanderer in the fulness of my years, A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, To aid our holy cause. And aid is near: But we must give the signal. Now, before The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye Is on our hearts--whose righteous arm befriends The arm that strikes for freedom--speak! decree The fate of our oppressors.

_Mon._ Let them fall When dreaming least of peril!--when the heart, Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the sword With a thick veil of myrtle; and in halls Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines Red in the festal torchlight, meet we there, And bid them welcome to the feast of death.

_Pro._ Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words Scarce meet our ears.

_Mon._ Why, then, I must repeat Their import. Let th’ avenging sword burst forth In some free festal hour--and woe to him Who first shall spare!

_Raim._ Must innocence and guilt Perish alike?

_Mon._ Who talks of innocence? When hath _their_ hand been stay’d for innocence? Let them all perish!--Heaven will choose its own. Why should _their_ children live? The earthquake whelms Its undistinguish’d thousands, making graves Of peopled cities in its path--and this Is heaven’s dread justice--ay, and it is well! Why then should we be tender, when the skies Deal thus with man? What if the infant bleed? Is there not power to hush the mother’s pangs? What if the youthful bride perchance should fall In her triumphant beauty? Should we pause? As if death were not mercy to the pangs Which make our lives the records of our woes? Let them all perish! And if one be found Amidst our band to stay th’ avenging steel For pity, or remorse, or boyish love, Then be his doom as theirs! [_A pause._ Why gaze ye thus? Brethren, what means your silence!

_Sicilians._ Be it so! If one among us stay th’ avenging steel For love or pity, be his doom as theirs! Pledge we our faith to this!

_Raim._ (_rushing forward indignantly._) Our faith to _this_! No! I but _dreamt_ I heard it! Can it be? My countrymen, my father!--is it thus That freedom should be won? Awake!--awake To loftier thoughts! Lift up exultingly, On the crown’d heights and to the sweeping winds, Your glorious banner! Let your trumpet’s blast Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud, Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear The stranger’s yoke no longer! What is he Who carries on his practised lip a smile, Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings? That which our nature’s instinct doth recoil from, And our blood curdle at--ay, yours and mine-- A murderer! Heard ye? Shall that name with ours Go down to after days? O friends! a cause Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names Of th’ elder time as rallying-words to men-- Sounds full of might and immortality! And shall not ours be such?

_Mon._ Fond dreamer, peace! Fame! What is fame? Will our unconscious dust Start into thrilling rapture from the grave! At the vain breath of praise? I tell thee, youth Our souls are parch’d with agonising thirst, Which must be quench’d, though death were in the draught: We must have vengeance, for our foes have left No other joy unblighted.

_Pro._ O my son! The time is past for such high dreams as thine. Thou know’st not whom we deal with: knightly faith And chivalrous honour are but things whereon They cast disdainful pity. We must meet Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. And, for our names--whate’er the deeds by which We burst our bondage--is it not enough That in the chronicle of days to come, We, through a bright “For Ever,” shall be call’d The men who saved their country?

_Raim._ Many a land Hath bow’d beneath the yoke, and then arisen As a strong lion rending silken bonds, And on the open field, before high heaven, Won such majestic vengeance as hath made Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own It is enough of glory to be call’d The children of the mighty, who redeem’d Their native soil--but not by means like these.

_Mon._ I have no children. Of Montalba’s blood Not one red drop doth circle through the veins Of aught that breathes? Why, what have _I_ to do With far futurity? My spirit lives But in the past. Away! when thou dost stand On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree Which the warm sun revives not, _then_ return, Strong in thy desolation: but till then, Thou art not for our purpose; we have need Of more unshrinking hearts.

_Raim._ Montalba! know I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice Might yet have power among you, I would say, Associates, leaders, _be_ avenged! but yet As knights, as warriors!

_Mon._ Peace! have we not borne Th’ indelible taint of contumely and chains? We _are not_ knights and warriors. Our bright crests Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. Boy! we are slaves--and our revenge shall be Deep as a slave’s disgrace.

_Raim._ Why, then, farewell: I leave you to your counsels. He that still Would hold his lofty nature undebased, And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.

_Pro._ And is it thus indeed?--dost _thou_ forsake Our cause, my son!

_Raim._ O father! what proud hopes This hour hath blighted! Yet, whate’er betide, It is a noble privilege to look up Fearless in heaven’s bright face--and this is mine, And shall be still. [_Exit_ Raimond.

_Pro._ He’s gone! Why, let it be! I trust our Sicily hath many a son Valiant as mine. Associates! ’tis decreed Our foes shall perish. We have but to name The hour, the scene, the signal.

_Mon._ It should be In the full city, when some festival Hath gather’d throngs, and lull’d infatuate hearts To brief security. Hark! is there not A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze? We are betray’d.--Who art thou?

Vittoria _enters_.

_Pro._ _One_ alone Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil That shades thy noble brow.

[_She raises her veil--the Sicilians draw back with respect._

_Sicilians._ Th’ affianced bride Of our lost king!

_Pro._ And more, Montalba; know Within this form there dwells a soul as high As warriors in their battles e’er have proved, Or patriots on the scaffold.

_Vit._ Valiant men! I come to ask your aid. You see me, one Whose widow’d youth hath all been consecrate To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held In token and memorial of the dead. Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth, But to behold one great atonement made, And keep one name from fading in men’s hearts, A tyrant’s will should force me to profane Heaven’s altar with unhallow’d vows--and live Stung by the keen unutterable scorn Of my own bosom, live--another’s bride?

_Sicilians._ Never! oh, never! Fear not, noble lady! Worthy of Conradin!

_Vit._ Yet hear me still-- _His_ bride, that Eribert’s, who notes our tears With his insulting eye of cold derision, And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works, Would number e’en our agonies as crimes. --Say, is this meet?

_Gui._ We deem’d these nuptials, lady, Thy willing choice; but ’tis a joy to find Thou’rt noble still. Fear not; by all our wrongs, This shall not be.

_Pro._ Vittoria, thou art come To ask our aid--but we have need of thine. Know, the completion of our high designs Requires--a festival; and it must be Thy bridal!

_Vit._ Procida!

_Pro._ Nay, start not thus. ’Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair With festal garlands, and to bid the song Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No--nor yet To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, Where death, not love, awaits him!

_Vit._ Can my soul Dissemble thus?

_Pro._ We have no other means Of winning our great birthright back from those Who have usurp’d it, than so lulling them Into vain confidence, that they may deem All wrongs forgot; and this may be best done By what I ask of thee.

_Mon._ Then we will mix With the flush’d revellers, making their gay feast The harvest of the grave.

_Vit._ A bridal day! --Must it be so? Then, chiefs of Sicily, I bid you to my nuptials! but be there With your bright swords unsheathed, for thus alone _My_ guests should be adorn’d.

_Pro._ And let thy banquet Be soon announced; for there are noble men Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase Reprieve with other blood.

_Vit._ Be it then the day Preceding that appointed for their doom.

_Gui._ My brother! thou shalt live! Oppression boasts No gift of prophecy!--It but remains To name our signal, chiefs!

_Mon._ The Vesper-bell!

_Pro._ Even so--the Vesper-bell, whose deep-toned peal Is heard o’er land and wave. Part of our band, Wearing the guise of antic revelry, Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, The halls of Eribert; and at the hour Devoted to the sword’s tremendous task, I follow with the rest. The Vesper-bell! That sound shall wake th’ avenger; for ’tis come, The time when power is in a voice, a breath, To burst the spell which bound us. But the night Is waning, with her stars, which one by one Warn us to part. Friends to your homes!--your _homes_? _That_ name is yet to win. Away! prepare For our next meeting in Palermo’s walls. The Vesper-bell! Remember!

_Sicilians._ Fear us not The Vesper-bell!

[_Exeunt omnes._

## ACT III.

## Scene I.--_Apartment in a Palace._

Eribert, Vittoria.

_Vit._ Speak not of love--it is a word with deep Strange magic in its melancholy sound, To summon up the dead; and they should rest, At such an hour, forgotten. There are things We must throw from us, when the heart would gather Strength to fulfil its settled purposes; Therefore, no more of love! But if to robe This form in bridal ornaments--to smile (I _can_ smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand At th’ altar by thy side;--if this be deem’d Enough, it shall be done.

_Eri._ My fortune’s star Doth rule th’ ascendant still! (_Apart._)--If not of love, Then pardon, lady, that I speak of _joy_, And with exulting heart----

_Vit._ There _is_ no joy! --Who shall look through the far futurity, And, as the shadowy visions of events Develop on his gaze, midst their dim throng, Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, “This will bring happiness?” Who shall do this? Who, thou and I, and all! There’s One, who sits In His own bright tranquillity enthroned, High o’er all storms, and looking far beyond Their thickest clouds! but we, from whose dull eyes A grain of dust hides the great sun--e’en we Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers, Of future joy and grief!

_Eri._ Thy words are strange. Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria! Oh! if my cares----

_Vit._ I know a day shall come Of peace to all. Ev’n from my darken’d spirit Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised, Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down Serenely to repose. Of this no more. I have a boon to ask.

_Eri._ Command my power, And deem it thus most honour’d.

_Vit._ Have I then Soar’d such an eagle pitch, as to command The mighty Eribert?--And yet ’tis meet; For I bethink me now, I should have worn A _crown_ upon this forehead. Generous lord! Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound Whose tones, o’er earth and ocean sweetly bearing A sense of deep repose, have lull’d me oft To peace--which is forgetfulness; I mean The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be The summons to our bridal. Hear you not? To our fair bridal!

_Eri._ Lady, let your will Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless’d, Proving my homage thus.

_Vit._ Why, then, ’tis mine To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, And I may be content. Yet much remains For thought to brood on, and I would be left Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert! (Whom I command so absolutely,) now Part we a few brief hours; and doubt not, when I’m at thy side once more, but I shall stand There--to the last!

_Eri._ Your smiles are troubled, lady-- May they ere long be brighter! Time will seem Slow till the Vesper-bell.

_Vit._ ’Tis lovers’ phrase To say--Time lags; and therefore meet for you; But with an equal pace the hours move on, Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, Pleasure or--fate.

_Eri._ Be not so full of thought On such a day. Behold, the skies themselves Look on my joy with a triumphant smile Unshadow’d by a cloud.

_Vit._ ’Tis very meet That heaven (which loves the just) should wear a smile In honour of his fortunes. Now, my lord, Forgive me if I say farewell until Th’ appointed hour.

_Eri._ Lady, a brief farewell.

[_Exeunt separately._

## Scene II.--_The Sea-shore._

Procida, Raimond.

_Pro._ And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this, our daring enterprise?

_Raim._ O father! I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word Hath to my soul been as a trumpet’s voice, Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds Whereby ’twas won--the high exploits, whose tale Bids the heart burn, were of another cast Than such as thou requirest.

_Pro._ Every deed Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim The freedom of our country; and the sword Alike is honour’d in the patriot’s hand, Searching, midst warrior hosts, the heart which gave Oppression birth, or flashing through the gloom Of the still chamber, o’er its troubled couch, At dead of night.

_Raim._ (_turning away._) There is no path but one For noble natures.

_Pro._ Wouldst thou ask the man Who to the earth hath dash’d a nation’s chains, Rent as with heaven’s own lightning, by what _means_ The glorious end was won? Go, swell th’ acclaim! Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path, To that most bright and sovereign destiny, Hath led o’er trampled thousands, be it call’d A stem necessity, but not a crime!

_Raim._ Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn’d, Ev’n from thy voice. The high remembrances Of other days are stirring in the heart Where _thou_ didst plant them; and they speak of men Who needed no vain sophistry to gild Acts that would bear heaven’s light--and such be mine! O father! is it yet too late to draw The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts On our most righteous cause?

_Pro._ What wouldst thou do?

_Raim._ I would go forth, and rouse th’ indignant land To generous combat. Why should freedom strike Mantled with darkness? Is there not more strength Ev’n in the waving of her single arm Than hosts can wield against her? _I_ would rouse That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on To its proud sphere--the stormy field of fight!

_Pro._ Ay! and give time and warning to the foe To gather all his might! It _is_ too late. There is a work to be this eve begun When rings the Vesper-bell; and, long before To-morrow’s sun hath reach’d i’ th’ noonday heaven His throne of burning glory, every sound Of the Provençal tongue within our walls, As by one thunderstroke--(you are pale, my son)-- Shall be for ever silenced!

_Raim._ What! such sounds As falter on the lip of infancy, In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed By the fond mother as she lulls her babe? Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air Pour’d by the timid maid? Must all alike Be still’d in death? and wouldst thou tell my heart There is no crime in _this_?

_Pro._ Since thou dost feel Such horror of our purpose, in thy power Are means that might avert it.

_Raim._ Speak! oh speak!

_Pro._ How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us!

_Raim._ Father! I can bear-- Ay, proudly woo--the keenest questioning Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems To claim a part of heaven’s dread royalty, --The power that searches thought.

_Pro._ (_after a pause._) Thou hast a brow Clear as the day--and yet I doubt thee, Raimond! Whether it be that I have learn’d distrust From a long look through man’s deep-folded heart; Whether my paths have been so seldom cross’d By honour and fair mercy, that they seem But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus My unaccustom’d gaze: howe’er it be-- I doubt thee! See thou waver not--take heed. Time lifts the veil from all things! [_Exit_ Procida.

_Raim._ And ’tis thus Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith We clothed our idols, drop! Oh, bitter day! When, at the crushing of our glorious world, We start, and find men thus! Yet be it so! Is not my soul still powerful in _itself_ To realise its dreams? Ay, shrinking not From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well Undaunted meet my father’s. But, away! _Thou_ shalt be saved, sweet Constance!--Love is yet Mightier than vengeance.

[_Exit_ Raimond.

## Scene III.----_Gardens of a Palace._

Constance _alone_.

_Con._ There was a time when my thoughts wander’d not Beyond these fairy scenes!--when but to catch The languid fragrance of the southern breeze From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest, Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough Of happiness. How have these calm delights Fled from before one passion, as the dews, The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled By the great sun! [Raimond _enters_. Raimond! oh! now thou’rt come-- I read it in thy look--to say farewell For the last time--the last!

_Raim._ No, best beloved! I come to tell thee there is now no power To part us but in death.

_Con._ I have dreamt of joy, But never aught like this. Speak yet again! Say we shall part no more!

_Raim._ No more--if love Can strive with darker spirits; and he is strong In his immortal nature! All is changed Since last we met. My father--keep the tale Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, From Eribert--my father is return’d: I leave thee not.

_Con._ Thy father! blessèd sound! Good angels be his guard! Oh! if he knew How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate Even a Provençal maid! Thy father!--now Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see The sunny happiness of earlier days Look from thy brow once more! But how is this? Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine; And in thy look is that which ill befits A tale of joy.

_Raim._ A dream is on my soul. I see a slumberer, crown’d with flowers, and smiling As in delighted visions, on the brink Of a dread chasm; and this strange fantasy Hath cast so deep a shadow o’er my thoughts, I cannot but be sad.

_Con._ Why, let me sing One of the sweet wild strains you love so well, And this will banish it.

_Raim._ It may not be. O gentle Constance! go not forth to-day: Such dreams are ominous.

_Con._ Have you then forgot My brother’s nuptial feast? I must be one Of the gay train attending to the shrine His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy Will print earth lightly now. What fear’st thou, love? Look all around! the blue transparent skies, And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase All thought of evil. Why, the very air Breathes of delight! Through all its glowing realms Doth music blend with fragrance; and e’en here The city’s voice of jubilee is heard, Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds Of human joy!

_Raim._ There lie far deeper things-- Things that may darken thought for life, beneath That city’s festive semblance. I have pass’d Through the glad multitudes, and I have mark’d A stern intelligence in meeting eyes, Which deem’d their flash unnoticed, and a quick, Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe Its mien with carelessness; and now and then, A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out Amidst the reckless throng. O’er all is spread A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide Much from unpractised eyes; but lighter signs Have been prophetic oft.

_Con._ I tremble!--Raimond! What may these things portend?

_Raim._ It was a day Of festival like this; the city sent Up through her sunny firmament a voice Joyous as now; when, scarcely heralded By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths The earthquake burst; and the wide splendid scene Became one chaos of all fearful things, Till the brain whirl’d, partaking the sick motion Of rocking palaces.

_Con._ And then didst thou, My noble Raimond! through the dreadful paths Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, Whose fathomless clefts, a moment’s work, had given One burial unto thousands, rush to save Thy trembling Constance! she who lives to bless Thy generous love, that still the breath of heaven Wafts gladness to her soul!

_Raim._ Heaven!--heaven is just! And being so, must guard thee, sweet one! still. Trust none beside. Oh! the omnipotent skies Make their wrath manifest, but insidious _man_ Doth compass those he hates with secret snares, Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad, Mask’d as a reveller. Constance! oh, by all Our tried affection, all the vows which bind Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers, Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell Doth sound for vesper prayer!

_Con._ And know’st thou not ’Twill be the bridal hour?

_Raim._ It will not, love! That hour will bring no bridal! Naught of this To human ear; but speed thou hither--fly, When evening brings that signal. Dost thou heed? This is no meeting by a lover sought To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight groves And stars attest his vows; deem thou not so, Therefore denying it! I tell thee, Constance! If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair As falls on man, beholding all he loves Perish before him, while his strength can but Strive with his agony--thou’lt meet me then. Look on me, love!--I am not oft so moved-- Thou’lt meet me?

_Con._ Oh! what mean thy words? If then My steps are free,--I will. Be thou but calm.

_Raim._ Be calm!--there is a cold and sullen calm, And, were my wild fears made realities, It might be mine; but, in this dread suspense-- This conflict of all terrible fantasies, There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, dear love! I will watch o’er thee still. And now, farewell Until that hour!

_Con._ My Raimond, fare thee well.

[_Exeunt._

## Scene IV.--_Room in the Citadel of Palermo._

Alberti, De Couci.

_De Cou._ Saidst thou this night?

_Alb._ This very night--and lo! E’en now the sun declines.

_De Cou._ What! are they arm’d?

_Alb._ All arm’d, and strong in vengeance and despair.

_De Cou._ Doubtful and strange the tale! Why was not this reveal’d before?

_Alb._ Mistrust me not, my lord! That stern and jealous Procida hath kept O’er all my steps (as though he did suspect The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought To read in mine) a watch so vigilant I knew not how to warn thee, though for this Alone I mingled with his bands--to learn Their projects and their strength. Thou know’st my faith To Anjou’s house full well.

_De Cou._ How may we now Avert the gathering storm? The viceroy holds His bridal feast, and all is revelry. ’Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart Which kept me from these nuptials.

_Alb._ Thou thyself May’st yet escape, and haply of thy bands Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance Upon these rebels. ’Tis too late to dream Of saving Eribert. E’en shouldst thou rush Before him with the tidings, in his pride And confidence of soul, he would but laugh Thy tale to scorn.

_De Cou._ He must not die unwarn’d, Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, And shalt not pass unguerdon’d, should I live Through the deep horrors of th’ approaching night.

_Alb._ Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti’s.

[_Exit_ Alberti.

_De Cou._ The grovelling slave!--And yet he spoke too true! For Eribert, in blind elated joy, Will scorn the warning voice. The day wanes fast, And through the city, recklessly dispersed, Unarm’d and unprepared, my soldiers revel, E’en on the brink of fate. I must away.

[_Exit_ De Couci.

## Scene V.--_A Banqueting Hall.--Provençal Nobles assembled._

_1st Noble._ Joy be to this fair meeting! Who hath seen The viceroy’s bride?

_2d Noble._ I saw her as she pass’d The gazing throngs assembled in the city. ’Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, Her castle’s wood-girt solitude. ’Twill gall These proud Sicilians that her wide domains Should be the conqueror’s guerdon.

_3d Noble._ ’Twas their boast With what fond faith she worshipp’d still the name Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves Brook this new triumph of their lords?

_2d Noble._ In sooth, It stings them to the quick. In the full streets They mix with our Provençals, and assume A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. ’Twere worth a thousand festivals to see With what a bitter and unnatural effort They strive to smile!

_1st Noble._ Is this Vittoria fair?

_2d Noble._ Of a most noble mien; but yet her beauty Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye, In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, From which thou’lt shrink as I did.

_1st Noble._ Hush! they come.

_Enter_ Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, _and others_.

_Eri._ Welcome, my noble friends!--there must not lower One clouded brow to-day in Sicily! --Behold my bride!

_Nobles._ Receive our homage, lady!

_Vit._ I bid all welcome. May the feast we offer Prove worthy of such guests!

_Eri._ Look on her, friends! And say if that majestic brow is not Meet for a diadem?

_Vit._ ’Tis well, my lord! When memory’s pictures fade--’tis kindly done To brighten their dimm’d hues!

_1st Noble_ (_apart._) Mark’d you her glance?

_2d Noble_ (_apart_.) What eloquent scorn was there? Yet he, th’ elate Of heart, perceives it not.

_Eri._ Now to the feast! Constance, you look not joyous. I have said That all should smile to-day.

_Con._ Forgive me, brother; The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp At times oppresses it.

_Eri._ Why, how is this?

_Con._ Voices of woe, and prayers of agony, Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay, Since ’tis your wish. In truth, I should have been A village maid.

_Eri._ But being as you are, Not thus ignobly free, command your looks (They may be taught obedience) to reflect The aspect of the time.

_Vit._ And know, fair maid! That, if in this unskill’d, you stand alone Amidst our court of pleasure.

_Eri._ To the feast! Now let the red wine foam!--There should be mirth When conquerors revel! Lords of this fair isle! Your good swords’ heritage, crown each bowl, and pledge The present and the future! for they both Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride?

_Vit._ Yes, Eribert!--thy prophecies of joy Have taught e’en _me_ to smile.

_Eri._ ’Tis well. To-day I have won a fair and almost _royal_ bride; To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course, To waft me happiness!--my proudest foes Must die; and then my slumber shall be laid On rose-leaves, with no envious fold to mar The luxury of its visions!--Fair Vittoria, Your looks are troubled!

_Vit._ It is strange--but oft, Midst festal songs and garlands, o’er my soul Death comes, with some dull image! As you spoke Of those whose blood is claim’d, I thought for them Who, in a darkness thicker than the night E’er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long, How blessèd were the stroke which makes them things Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust, There is at least no bondage! But should _we_, From such a scene as this, where all earth’s joys Contend for mastery, and the very sense Of life is rapture--should _we_ pass, I say, At once from such excitements to the void And silent gloom of that which doth await us-- Were it not dreadful?

_Eri._ Banish such dark thoughts! They ill beseem the hour.

_Vit._ There is no hour Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe, But they beseem it well! Why, what a slight Impalpable bound is that, th’ unseen, which severs Being from death! And who can tell how near Its misty brink he stands?

_1st Noble_ (_aside._) What mean her words?

_2d Noble._ There’s some dark mystery here.

_Eri._ No more of this! Pour the bright juice, which Etna’s glowing vines Yield to the conquerors! And let music’s voice Dispel these ominous dreams!--Wake, harp and song! Swell out your triumph!

_A Messenger enters, bearing a letter._

_Mes._ Pardon, my good lord! But this demands----

_Eri._ What means thy breathless haste, And that ill-boding mien? Away! such looks Befit not hours like these.

_Mes._ The Lord De Couci Bade me bear this, and say, ’tis fraught with tidings Of life and death.

_Vit._ (_hurriedly._) Is this a time for aught But revelry? My lord, these dull intrusions Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene!

_Eri._ (_to the Messenger._) Hence! Tell the Lord De Couci, we will talk Of life and death to-morrow. [_Exit Messenger._ Let there be Around me none but joyous looks to-day, And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth!

_A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &c._

_Eri._ What forms are these? What means this antic triumph?

_Vit._ ’Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye some strain Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily!

_One of the Masquers sings._

The festal eve, o’er earth and sky, In her sunset robe looks bright, And the purple hills of Sicily With their vineyards laugh in light; From the marble cities of her plains, Glad voices mingling swell; --But with yet more loud and lofty strains, They shall hail the Vesper-bell!

Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze Their cadence wafts afar, To float o’er the blue Sicilian seas, As they gleam to the first pale star! The shepherd greets them on his height, The hermit in his cell; --But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night, In the sound of the Vesper-bell!

[_The bell rings._

_Eri._ It is the hour! Hark, hark!--my bride, our summons! The altar is prepared and crown’d with flowers, That wait----

_Vit._ The victim!

[_A tumult heard without._

Procida _and_ Montalba _enter, with others, armed_.

_Pro._ Strike! the hour is come!

_Vit._ Welcome, avengers! welcome! Now, be strong!

(_The conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush with their swords drawn upon the Provençals._ Eribert _is wounded, and falls_.)

_Pro._ Now hath fate reach’d thee, in thy mid career, Thou reveller in a nation’s agonies!

(_The Provençals are driven off, pursued by the Sicilians._)

_Con._ (_supporting_ Eribert.) My brother! oh, my brother!

_Eri._ Have I stood A leader in the battle-fields of kings, To perish thus at last? Ay, by these pangs, And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep, Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins, This should be--death! In sooth, a dull exchange For the gay bridal feast!

_Voices_ (_without._) Remember Conradin!--spare none!--spare none!

_Vit._ (_throwing off her bridal wreath and ornaments._) This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast, In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling To earth for ever! And it is such joy, As if a captive from his dull cold cell Might soar at once, on charter’d wing, to range The realms of starr’d infinity! Away! Vain mockery of a bridal wreath! The hour For which stem patience ne’er kept watch in vain Is come; and I may give my bursting heart Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert! Believe in retribution! What! proud man! Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem heaven slept? “Or that the unseen, immortal ministers, Ranging the world to note e’en purposed crime In burning characters, had laid aside Their everlasting attributes for _thee_?” O blind security! He in whose dread hand The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach’d His pyramid height of power; that so his fall May with more fearful oracles make pale Man’s crown’d oppressors!

_Con._ Oh! reproach him not! His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink Of that dim world where passion may not enter. Leave him in peace.

_Voices_ (_without._) Anjou! Anjou!--De Couci, to the rescue!

_Eri._ (_half raising himself._) My brave Provençals! do ye combat still? And I your chief am here! Now, now I feel That death indeed is bitter!

_Vit._ Fare thee well! Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile Have look’d on man’s last pangs, thou shouldst by this, Be perfect how to die! _Exit_ Vittoria.

Raimond _enters_.

_Raim._ Away, my Constance! Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands Are scatter’d far and wide. A little while And thou shalt be in safety. Know’st thou not That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man Anselmo?--he whose hermitage is rear’d Mid some old temple’s ruins? Round the spot His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, ’Tis hallow’d as a sanctuary wherein Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm Have spent its fury. Haste!

_Con._ I will not fly! While in his heart there is one throb of life, One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave The brother of my youth to perish thus, Without one kindly bosom to sustain His dying head.

_Eri._ The clouds are darkening round. There are strange voices ringing in mine ear That summon me--to what? But I have been Used to command!--Away! I will not die, But on the field---- [_He dies_.

_Con._ (_kneeling by him._) O Heaven! be merciful As thou art just!--for he is now where naught But mercy can avail him.--It is past!

Guido _enters with his sword drawn._

_Gui._ (_to_ Raimond.) I’ve sought thee long--why art thou lingering here?

Haste, follow me! Suspicion with thy name Joins that word--_Traitor!_

_Raim._ Traitor!--Guido?

_Gui._ Yes! Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, After vain conflict with a people’s wrath, De Couci hath escaped? And there are those Who murmur that from _thee_ the warning came Which saved him from our vengeance. But e’en yet, In the red current of Provençal blood, That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword, And follow me!

_Raim._ And _thou_ couldst doubt me, Guido! ’Tis come to this!--Away! mistrust me still. I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. Thou knowst me not!

_Gui._ Raimond di Procida!-- If thou art he whom once I deem’d so noble-- Call me thy friend no more! [_Exit_ Guido.

_Raim._ (_after a pause._) Rise, dearest, rise! Thy duty’s task hath nobly been fulfill’d, E’en in the face of death; but all is o’er, And this is now no place where nature’s tears In quiet sanctity may freely flow. --Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar Of fast-advancing billows; and for _thee_ I shame not thus to tremble.--Speed! oh, speed!

_Exeunt._

## ACT IV.

## Scene I.--_A Street in Palermo._

Procida _enters_.

_Pro._ How strange and deep a stillness loads the air, As with the power of midnight! Ay, where death Hath pass’d, there should be silence. But this hush Of nature’s heart, this breathlessness of all things, Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds, Brooding in sullen masses o’er my spirit, Weighs like an omen! Wherefore should this be? Is not our task achieved--the mighty work Of our deliverance! Yes; I should be joyous: But this our feeble nature, with its quick Instinctive superstitions, will drag down Th’ ascending soul. And I have fearful bodings That treachery lurks amongst us.--Raimond! Raimond! Oh, guilt ne’er made a mien like his its garb! It cannot be!

Montalba, Guido, _and other Sicilians enter_.

_Pro._ Welcome! we meet in joy! Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming The kingly port of freemen! Who shall dare, After this proof of slavery’s dread recoil, To weave us chains again? Ye have done well.

_Mon._ We _have_ done well. There needs no choral song, No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth Our stern exploits. The _silence_ of our foes Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest, Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task Is still but half achieved, since with his bands De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts And deeds to startle earth, are yet required To make the mighty sacrifice complete.-- Where is thy son?

_Pro._ I know not. Once last night He cross’d my path, and with one stroke beat down A sword just raised to smite me, and restored My own, which in that deadly strife had been Wrench’d from my grasp; but when I would have press’d him To my exulting bosom, he drew back, And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile, Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask?

_Mon._ It matters not. We have deep things to speak of. Know’st thou that we have traitors in our councils?

_Pro._ I know some voice in secret must have warn’d De Couci, or his scatter’d bands had ne’er So soon been marshall’d, and in close array Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard aught That may develop this?

_Mon._ The guards we set To watch the city gates, have seized, this morn, One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step, Betray’d his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore (Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him-- The fugitive Provençal. Read and judge!

_Pro._ Where is this messenger?

_Mon._ Where _should_ he be?-- They slew him in their wrath.

_Pro._ Unwisely done! Give me the scrolls. [_He reads._ Now, if there be such things As may to death add sharpness, yet delay The pang which gives release; if there be power In execration, to call down the fires Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap’d Upon the traitor’s head!--Scorn make his name Her mark for ever!

_Mon._ In our passionate blindness, We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil Oft on ourselves.

_Pro._ Whate’er fate hath of ruin Fall on his house! What! to resign again That freedom for whose sake our souls have now Engrain’d themselves in blood! Why, who is he That hath devised this treachery? To the scroll Why fix’d he not his name, so stamping it With an immortal infamy, whose brand Might warn men from him? Who should be so vile? Alberti?--In his eye is that which ever Shrinks from encountering mine!--But no! his race Is of our noblest. Oh! he could not shame That high descent! Urbino?--Conti?--No! They are too deeply pledged. There’s one name more! --I cannot utter it! Now shall I read Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot From man’s high mien its native royalty, And seal his noble forehead with the impress Of its own vile imaginings! Speak your thoughts, Montalba! Guido!--Who should this man be?

_Mon._ Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed last night His sword to aid our foes, and turn’d its edge Against his country’s chiefs?--He that did _this_, May well be deem’d for guiltier treason ripe.

_Pro._ And who is he?

_Mon._ Nay, ask thy son.

_Pro._ My son! What should _he_ know of such a recreant heart? Speak, Guido! thou’rt his friend!

_Gui._ I would not wear The brand of such a name!

_Pro._ How? what means this? A flash of light breaks in upon my soul! Is it to blast me? Yet the fearful doubt Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before, And been flung from them. Silence!--Speak not yet! I would be calm and meet the thunder-burst With a strong heart. [_A pause._ Now, what have I to hear? Your tidings?

_Gui._ Briefly, ’twas your son did thus! He hath disgraced your name.

_Pro._ My son did thus! Are thy words oracles, that I should search Their hidden meaning out? _What_ did my son? I have forgot the tale. Repeat it, quick!

_Gui._ ’Twill burst upon thee all too soon. While we Were busy at the dark and solemn rites Of retribution; while we bathed the earth In red libations, which will consecrate The soil they mingled with to freedom’s step Through the long march of ages: ’twas his task To shield from danger a Provençal maid, Sister of him whose cold oppression stung Our hearts to madness.

_Mon._ What! should she be spared To keep that name from perishing on earth? --I cross’d them in their path, and raised my sword To smite her in her champion’s arms. We fought The boy disarm’d me! And I live to tell My shame, and wreak my vengeance!

_Gui._ Who but he Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt These scrolls reveal? Hath not the traitor still Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence, To win us from our purpose? All things seem Leagued to unmask him.

_Mon._ Know you not there came, E’en in the banquet’s hour, from this De Couci, One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings Of all our purposed deeds? And have we not Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves The sister of that tyrant?

_Pro._ There was one Who mourn’d for being childless! Let him now Feast o’er his children’s graves, and I will join The revelry!

_Mon._ (_apart._) You shall be childless too!

_Pro._ Was’t you, Montalba!--Now rejoice, I say! There is no name so near you that its stains Should call the fever’d and indignant blood To your dark cheek! But I will dash to earth The weight that presses on my heart, and then Be glad as thou art.

_Mon._ What means this, my lord? Who hath seen gladness on Montalba’s mien?

_Pro._ Why, should not all be glad who have no _sons_ To tarnish their bright name?

_Mon._ I am not used To bear with mockery.

_Pro._ Friend! By yon high heaven, I mock thee not! ’Tis a proud fate to live Alone and unallied. Why, what’s _alone_? A word whose sense is--_free!_--Ay, free from all The venom’d stings implanted in the heart By those it loves. Oh! I could laugh to think O’ th’ joy that riots in baronial halls, When the word comes--“A son is born!”--A _son_! They should say thus--“He that shall knit your brow To furrows, not of years--and bid your eye Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its shame, Is born, and so rejoice!” _Then_ might we feast, And know the cause! Were it not excellent?

_Mon._ This is all idle. There are deeds to do: Arouse thee, Procida!

_Pro._ Why, am I not Calm as immortal justice! She can strike, And yet be passionless--and thus will I. I know thy meaning. Deeds to do!--’tis well. They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth: There is a youth who calls himself my son. His name is Raimond--in his eye is light That shows like truth--but be not ye deceived! Bear him in chains before us. We will sit To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see The strength which girds our nature. Will not this Be glorious, brave Montalba? Linger not, Ye tardy messengers! for there are things Which ask the speed of storms. [_Exeunt_ Guido _and others_. Is not this well?

_Mon._ ’Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud height-- (_Aside._) And then be desolate like me! My woes Will at the thought grow light.

_Pro._ What now remains To be prepared? There should be solemn pomp To grace a day like this. Ay, breaking hearts Require a drapery to conceal their throbs From cold inquiring eyes; and it must be Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not Explore what lies beneath.

[_Exit_ Procida.

_Mon._ Now this is well! --I hate this Procida; for he hath won In all our councils that ascendency And mastery o’er bold hearts, which should have been Mine by a thousand claims. Had _he_ the strength Of wrongs like mine? No! for that name--his country-- _He_ strikes; _my_ vengeance hath a deeper fount: But there’s dark joy in this!--And fate hath barr’d My soul from every other.

[_Exit_ Montalba.

## Scene II.--_A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins of an Ancient Temple._

Constance, Anselmo.

_Con._ ’Tis strange he comes not! Is not this the still And sultry hour of noon? He should have been Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice? --“No! ’tis the shrill cicada, with glad life Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports Amidst them in the sun.” Hark! yet again! No! no! Forgive me, father! that I bring Earth’s restless griefs and passions, to disturb The stillness of thy holy solitude: My heart is full of care.

_Ans._ There is no place So hallow’d as to be unvisited By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts Will speak to them in whispers? I have known Affliction too, my daughter.

_Con._ Hark! his step! I know it well--he comes--my Raimond, welcome!

Vittoria _enters_, Constance _shrinks back on perceiving her_.

Oh, heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale.

_Vit._ (_not observing her._) There is a cloud of horror on my soul; And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, Even as an echo, following the sweet close Of some divine and solemn harmony: Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound Is power to bid the tempests of the heart Sink, like a storm rebuked.

_Ans._ What recent grief Darkens thy spirit thus?

_Vit._ I said not grief. We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown, Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now Have changed their nature: still, I say, rejoice! There is a cause, Anselmo! We are free-- Free and avenged! Yet on my soul there hangs A darkness, heavy as the oppressive gloom Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too, There is a cause.

_Ans._ How say’st thou, we are free?-- There may have raged, within Palermo’s walls, Some brief wild tumult; but too well I know They call the stranger lord.

_Vit._ Who calls the _dead_ Conqueror or lord? Hush! breathe it not aloud, The wild winds must not hear it! Yet again, I tell thee we are free!

_Ans._ Thine eye hath look’d On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang O’er its dark orb. Speak! I adjure thee: say, How hath this work been wrought?

_Vit._ Peace! ask me not! Why shouldst _thou_ hear a tale to send thy blood Back on its fount? We cannot wake them now! The storm is in my soul, but _they_ are all At rest!--Ay, sweetly may the slaughter’d babe By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men, Who midst the slain have slumber’d oft before, Making their shield their pillow, may repose Well, now their toils are done.--Is’t not enough?

_Con._ Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet There is no shade come o’er the laughing sky! --I am an outcast now.

_Ans._ O Thou whose ways Clouds mantle fearfully! of all the blind But terrible ministers that work thy wrath, How much is _man_ the fiercest! Others know Their limits--yes! the earthquakes, and the storms, And the volcanoes!--he alone o’erleaps The bounds of retribution! Couldst thou gaze, Vittoria! with thy woman’s heart and eye, On such dread scenes unmoved?

_Vit._ Was it for _me_ To stay th’ avenging sword? No, though it pierced My very soul! Hark! hark! what thrilling shrieks Ring through the air around me! Canst thou not Bid them be hush’d? Oh!--look not on me thus!

_Ans._ Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness to the looks Which are but sad! Have all then perish’d? _all?_ Was there no mercy!

_Vit._ Mercy! it hath been A word forbidden as th’ unhallow’d names Of evil powers. Yet one there was who dared To own the guilt of pity, and to aid The victims!--but in vain. Of him no more! He is a traitor, and a traitor’s death Will be his meed.

_Con._ (_coming forward._) Oh, heaven!--his name, his name! Is it--it cannot be!

_Vit._ (_starting._) _Thou_ here, pale girl! I deem’d thee with the dead! How hast thou ’scaped The snare! Who saved thee, last of all thy race! Was it not he of whom I spake e’en now, Raimond di Procida?

_Con._ It is enough: Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. Must he too die?

_Vit._ Is it e’en so? Why then, Live on--thou hast the arrow at thy heart! “Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes--” I mean not to betray thee. Thou may’st live! Why should Death bring thee his oblivious balms! _He_ visits but the happy. Didst thou ask If Raimond too must die? It is as sure As that his blood is on _thy_ head, for thou Didst win him to this treason.

_Con._ When did men Call mercy _treason_? Take my life, but save My noble Raimond!

_Vit._ Maiden! he must die. E’en now the youth before his judges stands; And they are men who, to the voice of prayer, Are as the rock is to the murmur’d sigh Of summer-waves!--ay, though a father sit On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. What wouldst thou?

_Con._ Mercy!--Oh! wert thou to plead But with a look, e’en yet he might be saved! If thou hast ever loved----

_Vit._ If I have loved? It is _that_ love forbids me to relent. I am what it hath made me. O’er my soul Lightning hath pass’d and sear’d it. Could I weep I then might pity--but it will not be.

_Con._ Oh, thou wilt yet relent! for woman’s heart Was form’d to suffer and to melt.

_Vit._ Away! Why should I pity thee? Thou wilt but prove What I have known before--and yet I live! Nature is strong, and it may all be borne-- The sick impatient yearning of the heart For that which is not; and the weary sense Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne! All, save remorse. But I will _not_ bow down My spirit to that dark power; there _was_ no guilt!-- Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt?

_Ans._ Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken thought, Lending reproachful voices to a breeze, Keen lightning to a look.

_Vit._ Leave me in peace! Is’t not enough that I should have a sense Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, And of unearthly whispers, haunting me With dread suggestions, but that _thy_ cold words, Old man, should gall me, too? Must all conspire Against me?----O thou beautiful spirit! wont To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, Where art _thou_ vanish’d? Was it not the thought Of thee which urged me to the fearful task, And wilt thou now forsake me? I must seek The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance, Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths; --Here I but meet despair!

[_Exit_ Vittoria.

_Ans._ (_to_ Constance.) Despair not _thou_, My daughter! He that purifies the heart With grief will lend it strength.

_Con._ (_endeavouring to rouse herself._) Did she not say That some one was to die?

_Ans._ I tell thee not Thy pangs are vain--for nature will have way. Earth must have tears: yet in a heart like thine, Faith may not yield its place.

_Con._ Have I not heard Some fearful tale?--Who said that there should rest Blood on my soul? What blood? I never bore Hatred, kind father! unto aught that breathes: Raimond doth know it well. Raimond!--High heaven! It bursts upon me now! And he must die! For my sake--e’en for mine!

_Ans._ Her words were strange, And her proud mind seem’d half to frenzy wrought; --Perchance this may not be.

_Con._ It _must_ not be. Why do I linger here? [_She rises to depart._

_Ans._ Where wouldst thou go?

_Con._ To give their stern and unrelenting hearts A victim in his stead.

_Ans._ Stay! wouldst thou rush On certain death?

_Con._ I may not falter now. --Is not the life of woman all bound up In her affections? What hath _she_ to do In this bleak world alone? It may be well For _man_ on his triumphal course to move, Uncumber’d by soft bonds; but we were born For love and grief.

_Ans._ Thou fair and gentle thing, Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst _thou_ Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, Or face the King of Terrors?

_Con._ There is strength Deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent Before her gems are found?--Oh! now I feel Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn’d To look on death for me! My heart hath given Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith As high in its devotion.

[_Exit_ Constance.

_Ans._ She is gone! Is it to perish?--God of mercy! lend Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save This pure and lofty creature! I will follow-- But her young footstep and heroic heart Will bear her to destruction, faster far Than I can track her path.

[_Exit_ Anselmo.

## Scene III.--_Hall of a Public Building._

Procida, Montalba, Guido, _and others, seated as on a Tribunal_.

_Pro._ The morn lower’d darkly; but the sun hath now, With fierce and angry splendour, through the clouds Burst forth, as if impatient to behold This our high triumph.--Lead the prisoner in.

Raimond _is brought in, fettered and guarded_.

Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here! --Is this man guilty?--Look on him, Montalba!

_Mon._ Be firm. Should justice falter at a look?

_Pro._ No, thou say’st well. Her eyes are filleted, Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself-- But no! I will not breathe a traitor’s name-- Speak! thou art arraign’d of treason.

_Raim._ I arraign _You_, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, In the bright face of heaven; and your own hearts Give echo to the charge. Your very looks Have ta’en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, With a perturb’d and haggard wildness, back From the too-searching light. Why, what hath wrought This change on noble brows? There is a voice With a deep answer, rising from the blood Your hands have coldly shed! Ye are of those From whom just men recoil with curdling veins, All thrill’d by life’s abhorrent consciousness, And sensitive feeling of a _murderer’s_ presence. --Away! come down from your tribunal seat, Put off your robes of state, and let your mien Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you That which repugnant earth doth sicken at, More than the pestilence. That I should live To see my father shrink!

_Pro._ Montalba, speak! There’s something chokes my voice--but fear me not.

_Mon._ If we must plead to vindicate our acts, Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear, Most eloquent youth! What answer canst thou make To this our charge of treason?

_Raim._ I will plead _That_ cause before a mightier judgment-throne, Where mercy is not guilt. But here I feel Too buoyantly the glory and the joy Of my free spirit’s whiteness; for e’en now The embodied hideousness of crime doth seem Before me glaring out. Why, I saw _thee_, Thy foot upon an aged warrior’s breast, Trampling out nature’s last convulsive heavings. And thou, _thy_ sword--O valiant chief!--is yet Red from the noble stroke which pierced at once A mother and the babe, whose little life Was from her bosom drawn!--Immortal deeds For bards to hymn!

_Gui._ (_aside._) I look upon his mien, And waver. Can it be? My boyish heart Deem’d him so noble once! Away, weak thoughts! Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were _mine_, From his proud glance?

_Pro._ O thou dissembler! thou, So skill’d to clothe with virtue’s generous flush The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce Believe thee guilty!--look on me, and say Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, And forge new fetters for th’ indignant land? Whose was _this_ treachery? [_Shows him papers._ Who hath promised here (Belike to appease the manès of the dead) At midnight to unfold Palermo’s gates, And welcome in the foe? Who hath done this, But thou--a tyrant’s friend?

_Raim._ Who hath done this? Father!--if I may call thee by that name-- Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles Were masks that hid their daggers. _There_, perchance, May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me, I know but this--there needs no deep research To prove the truth that murderers may be traitors, Even to each other.

_Pro._ (_to_ Montalba.) His unaltering cheek Still vividly doth hold its natural hue, And his eye quails not! Is this innocence?

_Mon._ No! ’tis th’ unshrinking hardihood of crime. --Thou bear’st a gallant mien. But where is she Whom thou hast barter’d fame and life to save, The fair Provençal maid? What! know’st thou not That this alone were guilt, to death allied? Was’t not our law that he who spared a foe (And is she not of that detested race?) Should thenceforth be amongst us _as_ a foe? --Where hast thou borne her? speak!

_Raim._ That Heaven, whose eye Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, Is with her: she is safe.

_Pro._ And by that word Thy doom is seal’d. Oh, God! that I had died Before this bitter hour, in the full strength And glory of my heart!

Constance _enters, and rushes to_ Raimond.

_Con._ Oh! art thou found? --But yet, to find thee thus! Chains, chains for _thee_! My brave, my noble love! Off with these bonds; Let him be free as air: for I am come To be your victim now.

_Raim._ Death has no pang More keen than this. Oh! wherefore art thou here I could have died so calmly, deeming thee Saved, and at peace.

_Con._ At peace!--And thou hast thought Thus poorly of my love! But woman’s breast Hath strength to suffer too. Thy father sits On this tribunal; Raimond, which is he?

_Raim._ My father! who hath lull’d thy gentle heart With that false hope? Beloved! gaze around-- See if thine eye can trace a father’s soul In the dark looks bent on us.

[Constance, _after earnestly examining the countenances of the Judges, falls at the feet of_ Procida.

_Con._ Thou art he! Nay, turn thou not away! for I beheld Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist Pass o’er thy troubled eye; and then I knew Thou wert his father! Spare him! take _my_ life! In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his, But yet mine all. Oh! _he_ hath still to run A long bright race of glory.

_Raim._ Constance, peace! I look upon thee, and my failing heart Is as a broken reed.

_Con._ (_still addressing_ Procida.) Oh, yet relent! If ’twas his crime to rescue _me_--behold I come to be the atonement! Let him live To crown thine age with honour. In thy heart There’s a deep conflict; but great Nature pleads With an o’ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield! --Thou _art_ his father!

_Pro._ (_after a pause._) Maiden, thou’rt deceived! I am as calm as that dead pause of nature Ere the full thunder bursts. A judge is not Father or friend. Who calls this man my son? --_My_ son! Ay! thus his mother proudly smiled-- But she was noble! Traitors stand alone, Loosed from all ties. Why should I trifle thus? --Bear her away!

_Raim._ (_starting forward._) And whither?

_Mon._ Unto death. Why should she live, when all her race have perish’d?

_Con._ (_sinking into the arms of_ Raimond.)

Raimond, farewell! Oh! when thy star hath risen To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved! I died for thee.

_Raim._ High Heaven! thou see’st these things, And yet endurest them! Shalt thou die for me, Purest and loveliest being?--but our fate May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold-- Her deep blue eyes are closed: should this be death --If thus, there yet were mercy! Father, father! Is thy heart human?

_Pro._ Bear her hence, I say! Why must my soul be torn?

Anselmo _enters holding a Crucifix_.

_Ans._ Now, by this sign Of heaven’s prevailing love! ye shall not harm One ringlet of her head. How! is there not Enough of blood upon your burthen’d souls? Will not the visions of your midnight couch Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap Crime upon crime? Be ye content: your dreams, Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep, E’en though this maid be spared! Constance, look up! Thou shalt not die.

_Raim._ Oh! death e’en now hath veil’d The light of her soft beauty. Wake my love! Wake at my voice!

_Pro._ Anselmo, lead her hence, And let her live, but never meet my sight. --Begone! my heart will burst.

_Raim._ One last embrace! --Again life’s rose is opening on her cheek; Yet must we part. So love is crush’d on earth! But there are brighter worlds!--Farewell, farewell!

[_He gives her to the care of_ Anselmo.

_Con._ (_slowly recovering._) There was a voice which call’d me. Am I not A spirit freed from earth? Have I not pass’d The bitterness of death?

_Ans._ Oh, haste away!

_Con._ Yes! Raimond calls me. He too is released From his cold bondage. We are free at last, And all is well. Away!

[_She is led out by_ Anselmo.

_Raim._ The pang is o’er, And I have but to die.

_Mon._ Now, Procida, Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid All thy deep soul’s commanding energies; For thou--a chief among us--must pronounce The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee.

_Pro._ Ha! ha! Men’s hearts should be of softer mould Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom Their children _then_ with an unfaltering voice, And we must tremble thus! Is it not said That nature grows degenerate, earth being now So full of days?

_Mon._ Rouse up thy mighty heart.

_Pro._ Ay, thou say’st right. There yet are souls which tower As landmarks to mankind. Well, what’s the task? --There is a man to be condemn’d, you say? Is he then guilty?

_All._ Thus we deem of him, With one accord.

_Pro._ And hath he naught to plead?

_Raim._ Naught but a soul unstain’d.

_Pro._ Why, that is little. Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them, And conscience may be sear’d. But for this sentence! --Was’t not the penalty imposed on man, E’en from creation’s dawn, that he must die? --It was: thus making guilt a sacrifice Unto eternal justice; and we but Obey heaven’s mandate when we cast dark souls To th’ elements from among us. Be it so! Such be _his_ doom! I have said. Ay, now my heart Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press Its gaspings down. Off! let me breathe in freedom! --Mountains are on my breast! [_He sinks back._

_Mon._ Guards, bear the prisoner Back to his dungeon.

_Raim._ Father! oh, look up; Thou art my father still!

_Gui._ (_leaving the tribunal, throws himself on the neck of_ Raimond.) Oh! Raimond, Raimond! If it should be that I have wrong’d thee, say Thou dost forgive me.

_Raim._ Friend of my young days, So may all-pitying heaven!

[Raimond _is led out._

_Pro._ Whose voice was that? Where is he?--gone? Now I may breathe once more In the free air of heaven. Let us away.

[_Exeunt omnes._

## ACT V.

## Scene I.--_A Prison dimly lighted._

Raimond _sleeping_. Procida _enters_.

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

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

_Pro._ ’Twas not for _this_ I came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Raim._ Father! yet hear me!

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

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

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

_Raim._ I am prepared.

_Pro._ ’Tis well.

[_Exit_ Procida.

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

[_Exit into an inner cell._

## Scene II.--_A Street of Palermo._

_Many Citizens assembled._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_The sound of trumpets heard at a distance._

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

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

[_The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer._

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

Procida _enters_.

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

_Cit._ My lord, we came--

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

[_Exeunt._

## Scene III.--_Prison of_ Raimond.

Raimond, Anselmo.

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

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

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

_Ans._ Alas! what should I say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vittoria _rushes in wildly, as if pursued_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Attendants enter._

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

_Att._ O lady! we obey.

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

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

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

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

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

[_She dies._

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

[_He kneels beside her._

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

_Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Raim._ Here rest thee, warrior.

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

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

_Mon._ Raimond di Procida!

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

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

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

Procida, Guido, _and other Sicilians_.

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

Alberti _is brought in wounded and fettered_.

_Alb._ Procida!

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

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

_Pro._ Speak, speak!

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

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

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

Anselmo _enters_.

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

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

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

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

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

_Ans._ Temper this proud delight.

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

_Ans._ He lives.

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

## Scene VII.--_Garden of a Convent._

Raimond _is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants_.

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

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

[_Exit 2d Attendant._

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

[_Exit 1st Attendant._

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

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

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

[_She approaches_ Raimond.

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

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

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

[_She attempts to bind his wounds._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANNOTATIONS ON THE “VESPERS OF PALERMO.”

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

‘Bronwylfa, Dec. 16, 1823.

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

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

“‘F. Hemans.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE THE THIRD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[“The last poem is to the memory of his late Majesty: unlike courtly themes in general, this is one of the deepest and most lasting interest. Buried as the King had long been in mental and visual darkness, and dead to the common joys of the world, his death, perhaps, did not occasion the shock, or the piercing sorrow which we have felt on some other public losses; but the heart must be cold indeed that could, on reflection, regard the whole fortune and fate of that venerable, gallant, tender-hearted, and pious man, without a more than common sympathy. There was something in his character so truly national--his very errors were of so amiable a kind, his excellences bore so high a stamp, his nature was so genuine and unsophisticated, he stood in his splendid court, amidst his large and fine family, so true a husband, so good a father, so safe an example--he so thoroughly understood the feelings, and so duly appreciated the virtues, even the uncourtly virtues of his subjects--and, with all this, the sorrows from heaven rained down upon his head in so ‘pitiless and pelting a storm:’ all these--his high qualities and unparalleled sufferings--form such a subject for poetry, as nothing, we should imagine, but its difficulty and the expectation attending it, would prevent from being seized upon by the greatest poets of the day. We will not say that Mrs Hemans has filled the whole canvass as it might have been filled, but unquestionably her poem is beyond all comparison with any which we have seen on the subject; it is full of fine and pathetic passages, and it leads us up through all the dismal colourings of the foreground to that bright and consoling prospect which should close every Christian’s reflections on such a matter. An analysis of so short a poem is wholly unnecessary, and we have already transgressed our limits; we will, therefore, give but one extract of that soothing nature alluded to, and release our readers:--

‘Yet was there mercy still! If joy no more,’ etc.

“It is time to close this article.[194] Our readers will have seen, and we do not deny, that we have been much interested by our subject. Who or what Mrs Hemans is, we know not: we have been told that, like a poet of antiquity--

----‘Tristia vitæ Solatur cantu,’----

If it be so, (and the most sensible hearts are not uncommonly nor unnaturally the most bitterly wounded,) she seems, from the tenor of her writings, to bear about her a higher and a surer balsam than the praises of men, or even the ‘sacred muse’ herself can impart. Still there is a pleasure, an innocent and an honest pleasure, even to a wounded spirit, in fame fairly earned; and such fame as may wait upon our decision, we freely and conscientiously bestow. In our opinion, all her poems are elegant and pure in thought and language; her later poems are of higher promise, they are vigorous, picturesque, and pathetic.”--_Quarterly Review_, vol. xxiv.]

[194] This critique, from the pen of the venerable and distinguished Editor, William Gifford, Esq., comprehended strictures on “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,”--“Tales and Historic Scenes in Verse,”--“Translations from Camoens,” etc.,--“The Sceptic,” and “Stanzas to the Memory of the late King.”

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.

SECOND SERIES.

[After the first collection of her Tales and Historic Scenes, it is pretty evident that Mrs Hemans contemplated a second series, although her design was never so extensively carried out as to induce the publication of another volume under the same title. But, as the compositions we refer to all belong to this period of our author’s literary progress, we have ventured not only so to class, but so to christen them, as Malachi Malgrowther would say, “for uniformity’s sake.”

THE MAREMMA.

[“Nello della Pietra had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Maremma, which, then as now, was a district destructive of health. He never told his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle of Campaldino; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the House of Este; the third was a woman unknown to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, turned towards him with these words:--

Recorditi di me; che son la Pia, Sienna mi fe, disfecerni Maremma, Salsi colui che inanellata pria Disposando m’ avea con la sua gemma.’” Purgatorio, cant. v.

--_Edinburgh Review_, No. lvii.]

There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, Where glowing suns there purest light diffuse, Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise, And nature lavishes her warmest hues; But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath-- Away! her charms are but the pomp of Death!

He in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling, Where the cool shade its freshness round thee throws; His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling, With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose; And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh But woo thee still to slumber and to die.

Mysterious danger lurks, a syren there, Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom, But stealing o’er thee in the scented air, And veil’d in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb; How may we deem, amidst their deep array, That heaven and earth but flatter to betray?

Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure! Can it be That these but charm us with destructive wiles? Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in _thee_ Danger is mask’d in beauty--death in smiles? Oh! still the Circe of that fatal shore, Where she, the Sun’s bright daughter, dwelt of yore!

There, year by year, that secret peril spreads, Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign, And viewless blights o’er many a landscape sheds, Gay with the riches of the south, in vain; O’er fairy bowers and palaces of state Passing unseen, to leave them desolate.

And pillar’d halls, whose airy colonnades Were form’d to echo music’s choral tone, Are silent now, amidst deserted shades, Peopled by sculpture’s graceful forms alone; And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves, Neglected temples, and forsaken groves.

And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming, Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise. By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming Of old Arcadia’s woodland deities. Wild visions!--there no sylvan powers convene: Death reigns the genius of th’ Elysian scene.

Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome! that bear Traces of mightier beings on your brow, O’er you that subtle spirit of the air Extends the desert of his empire now; Broods o’er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome, And makes the Cæsars’ ruin’d halls his home.

Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power. His crown’d and chosen victims: o’er their lot Hath fond affection wept--each blighted flower In turn was loved and mourn’d, and is forgot. But one who perish’d, left a tale of woe, Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow.

A voice of music, from Sienna’s walls, Is floating joyous on the summer air; And there are banquets in her stately halls, And graceful revels of the gay and fair, And brilliant wreaths the altar have array’d, Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid.

To that young bride each grace hath Nature given Which glows on Art’s divinest dream: her eye Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven-- Her cheek a tinge of morning’s richest dye; Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form Still breathes and charms, in Vinci’s colours warm.[195]

But is she blest?--for sometimes o’er her smile A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast; And in her liquid glance there seems awhile To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past; Yet soon it flies--a cloud that leaves no trace, On the sky’s azure, of its dwelling-place.

Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise Remembrance of some early love or woe, Faded, yet scarce forgotten--in her eyes Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow, Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, Where still some pining thought comes darkly o’er our mirth.

The world before her smiles--its changeful gaze She hath not proved as yet; her path seems gay With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise Is still the joyous herald of her way; And beauty’s light around her dwells, to throw O’er every scene its own resplendent glow.

Such is the young Bianca--graced with all That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give; Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall Such dreams as ne’er life’s early bloom survive; And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought.

And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith Is brave and noble--child of high descent, He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, Mid slaughter’d heaps, the warrior’s monument; And proudly marshall’d his carroccio’s[196] way Amidst the wildest wreck of war’s array.

And his the chivalrous commanding mien, Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly grace; Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, Of fiery passions, darting o’er his face, And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye-- But e’en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes die.

And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing, As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse; And veil the workings of each darker feeling, Deep in his soul concentrating its force; But yet he loves--Oh! who hath loved, nor known Affection’s power exalt the bosom all its own?

The days roll on--and still Bianca’s lot Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot To wake her soul from life’s enchanted dream; And, if her brow a moment’s sadness wear, It sheds but grace more intellectual there.

A few short years, and all is changed; her fate Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o’ercast. Have jealous doubts transform’d to wrath and hate, The love whose glow expression’s power surpass’d? Lo! on Pietra’s brow a sullen gloom Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom.

Oh! can he meet that eye, of light serene, Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth, And view that bright intelligence of mien Form’d to express but thoughts of loftiest worth, Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign? --How shall he e’er confide in aught on earth again?

In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze. Transient, yet fill’d with meaning, stern and wild, Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys, Then turns away, and fixes on her child So dark a glance as thrills a mother’s mind With some vague fear scarce own’d, and undefined.

There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave Of the blue deep which bathes Italia’s shore, Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave Gray rocks with foliage richly shadow’d o’er, And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood, Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood.

Fair is that house of solitude--and fair The green Maremma, far around it spread, A sun-bright waste of beauty; yet an air Of brooding sadness o’er the scene is shed, No human footstep tracks the lone domain, The desert of luxuriance glows in vain.

And silent are the marble halls that rise ’Mid founts, and cypress walks and olive groves: All sleep in sunshine, ’neath cerulean skies, And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves; Yet every trace of man reveals alone, That there life once hath flourish’d--and is gone.

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing, The summer air, deceit in every sigh, Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing, Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by; And strains of mirth and melody have flow’d Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode.

And thither doth her Lord remorseless bear Bianca with her child. His alter’d eye And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear, While his dark spirit seals their doom--to die; And the deep bodings of his victim’s heart Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part.

It is the summer’s glorious prime--and blending Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending, Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep, And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, That lovely shore of solitude and light.

Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing, Deck’d with young flowers the rich Maremma glows, Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing, And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows, And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb.

Yes! ’tis _thy_ tomb, Bianca! fairest flower! The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale, Which, o’er thee breathing with insidious power, Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale; And fatal in its softness, day by day, Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.

But sink not yet; for there are darker woes, Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading-- Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading! Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot: ’Tis agony--but soon to be forgot!

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, Than hourly to behold the spoiler’s breath Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, O’er Infancy’s fair cheek the blight of death? To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o’ercast The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last!

Such pangs were thine, young mother! Thou didst bend O’er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head; And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed, And watch his patient, supplicating eye Fix’d upon thee--on thee!--who couldst no aid supply!

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe Through those dark hours: to thee the wind’s low sigh, And the faint murmur of the ocean’s flow, Came like some spirit whispering--“He must die!” And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast, His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest.

’Tis past--that fearful trial!--he is gone! But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep; The hour of nature’s charter’d peace comes on, And thou shalt share thine infant’s holy sleep. A few short sufferings yet--and death shall be As a bright messenger from heaven to thee.

But ask not--hope not--one relenting thought From him who doom’d thee thus to waste away, Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught, Broods in dark triumph o’er thy slow decay; And coldly, sternly, silently can trace The gradual withering of each youthful grace.

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come, When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise As an accusing angel--and thy tomb, A martyr’s shrine, be hallow’d in his eyes! Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting.

Lift thy meek eyes to heaven--for all on earth, Young sufferer! fades before thee. Thou art lone: Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth, Thine hour of death is all Affliction’s own! It is our task to suffer--and our fate To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late.

The season’s glory fades--the vintage lay Through joyous Italy resounds no more; But mortal loveliness hath pass’d away, Fairer than aught in summer’s glowing store. Beauty and youth are gone--behold them such As death hath made them with his blighting touch!

The summer’s breath came o’er them--and they died! Softly it came to give luxuriance birth, Call’d forth young nature in her festal pride, But bore to them their summons from the earth! Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, And wake to life and light all flowers--but these.

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave; But o’er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling The dew-drops glisten and the wild-flowers wave-- Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb!

[195] An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci’s picture of his wife Mona Lisa, supposed to be the most perfect imitation of nature ever exhibited in painting.

[196] A sort of consecrated war-chariot.

A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.

[The Secret Tribunal,[197] which attained such formidable power towards the close of the fourteenth century, is mentioned in history as an institution publicly known so early as in the year 1211. Its members, who were called Free Judges, were unknown to the people, and were bound by a tremendous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, without exception, if they had committed any offence cognisable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation to relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the accused, and, in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put him to death wherever he might be met with. The proceedings of this tribunal were carried on at night, and with the greatest mystery; and though it was usual to summon a culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet persons obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned without any citation. After condemnation, it was almost impossible for any one to escape the vengeance of the Free Judges, for their commands set thousands of assassins in motion, who had sworn not to spare the life of their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to execute the decrees of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even should they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought admission into the society; there were Free Judges even amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and every prince had some of their Order in his council. When a member of this tribunal was not of himself strong enough to seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight of him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades for the purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making certain signs, to lend him immediate assistance, without asking any questions. It was usual to hang up the person condemned, with a willow branch, to the first tree; but if circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a poniard, they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the transactions of the _Sages_ or _Seers_ (as they called themselves) were enveloped in mystery, and it is even now unknown by what signs they revealed themselves to each other. At length their power became so extensive and redoubtable, that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary to unite their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at length successful.

The following account of this extraordinary association is given by Madame de Staël:--“Des juges mystérieux, inconnus l’un à l’autre, toujours masqués, et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punissoient dans le silence, et gravoient seulement sur le poignard qu’ils enfoncoient dans le sein du coupable ce mot terrible: Tribunal Secret. Ils prévenoient le condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les fenêtres de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur! Alors l’infortuné savoit que par-tout, dans l’étranger, dans son concitoyen, dans son parent même, il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, tout étoit rempli par la présence invisible de cette conscience armée qui poursuivoit les criminels. On concoit comment cette terrible institution pouvoit être nécessaire, dans un temps où chaque homme étoit fort contre tous, au lieu que tous doivent être forts contre chacun. Il falloit que la justice surprit le criminel avant qu’il pût s’en défendre; mais cette punition qui planoit dans les airs comme une ombre vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler le sein même d’un ami, frappoit d’une invincible terreur.”--_L’Allemagne_, vol. ii.]

[197] See the works of Baron Bock, and Professor Kramer.

Night veil’d the mountains of the vine, And storms had roused the foaming Rhine, And, mingling with the pinewood’s roar, Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, While glen and cavern, to their moans Gave answer with a thousand tones: Then, as the voice of storms appall’d The peasant of the Odenwald,[198] Shuddering he deem’d, that, far on high, ’Twas the wild huntsman rushing by, Riding the blast with phantom speed, With cry of hound and tramp of steed, While his fierce train, as on they flew, Their horns in savage chorus blew, Till rock, and tower, and convent round, Rang to the shrill unearthly sound.

Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced The forest paths, in secret haste; Far other sounds were on the night, Though lost amidst the tempest’s might, That fill’d the echoing earth and sky With its own awful harmony. There stood a lone and ruin’d fane, Far in the Odenwald’s domain, Midst wood and rock, a deep recess Of still and shadowy loneliness. Long grass its pavement had o’ergrown, The wild-flower waved o’er the altar stone, The night-wind rock’d the tottering pile, As it swept along the roofless aisle, For the forest boughs and the stormy sky Were all that minster’s canopy.

Many a broken image lay In the mossy mantle of decay, And partial light the moonbeams darted O’er trophies of the long-departed; For there the chiefs of other days, The mighty, slumber’d, with their praise: ’Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven A tribute to their bier had given, Long since a sound but the moaning blast Above their voiceless home had pass’d. --So slept the proud, and with them all The records of their fame and fall; Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest, Adorn’d the dwelling of their rest, And emblems of the Holy Land Were carved by some forgotten hand. But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced; And the scatter’d leaves of the northern pine Half hid the palm of Palestine. So slept the glorious--lowly laid, As the peasant in his native shade; Some hermit’s tale, some shepherd’s rhyme, All that high deeds could win from time!

What footsteps move, with measured tread, Amid those chambers of the dead? What silent, shadowy beings glide Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside, Peopling the wild and solemn scene With forms well suited to its mien? Wanderer, away! let none intrude On their mysterious solitude! Lo! these are they, that awful band, The secret Watchers of the land, They that, unknown and uncontroll’d, Their dark and dread tribunal hold. They meet not in the monarch’s dome, They meet not in the chieftain’s home; But where, unbounded o’er their heads, All heaven magnificently spreads, And from its depths of cloudless blue The eternal stars their deeds may view! Where’er the flowers of the mountain sod By roving foot are seldom trod; Where’er the pathless forest waves, Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves; Where’er wild legends mark a spot, By mortals shunn’d, but unforgot, There, circled by the shades of night, They judge of crimes that shrink from light; And guilt, that deems its secret known To the One unslumbering eye alone, Yet hears their name with a sudden start, As an icy touch had chill’d its heart, For the shadow of th’ avenger’s hand Rests dark and heavy on the land.

There rose a voice from the ruin’s gloom, And woke the echoes of the tomb, As if the noble hearts beneath Sent forth deep answers to its breath.

“When the midnight stars are burning, And the dead to earth returning; When the spirits of the blest Rise upon the good man’s rest; When each whisper of the gale Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale; In the shadow of the hour That o’er the soul hath deepest power, Why thus meet we, but to call For judgment on the criminal? Why, but the doom of guilt to seal, And point th’ avenger’s holy steel? A fearful oath has bound our souls, A fearful power our arm controls! There is an ear awake on high E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die; There is an eye whose beam pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades: That ear hath heard our awful vow, That searching eye is on us now! Let him whose heart is unprofaned, Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain’d-- Let him, whose thoughts no record keep Of crimes in silence buried deep, Here, in the face of heaven, accuse The guilty whom its wrath pursues!”

’Twas hush’d--that voice of thrilling sound! And a dead silence reign’d around. Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form Tower’d like a phantom in the storm; Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, With its dark folds his face to shroud, Through pillar’d arches on he pass’d, With stately step, and paused at last, Where, on the altar’s mouldering stone, The fitful moonbeam brightly shone; Then on the fearful stillness broke Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke:

“Before that eye whose glance pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades; Heard by that ear awake on high E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die-- With all a mortal’s awe I stand, Yet with pure heart and stainless hand. To heaven I lift that hand, and call For judgment on the criminal; The earth is dyed with bloodshed’s hues-- It cries for vengeance. I accuse!”

“Name thou the guilty! say for whom Thou claim’st th’ inevitable doom!

“Albert of Lindheim--to the skies The voice of blood against him cries; A brother’s blood--his hand is dyed With the deep stain of fratricide. One hour, one moment, hath reveal’d What years in darkness had conceal’d, But all in vain--the gulf of time Refused to close upon his crime; And guilt that slept on flowers shall know The earthquake was but hush’d below! --Here, where amidst the noble dead, Awed by their fame, he dare not tread; Where, left by him to dark decay, Their trophies moulder fast away, Around us and beneath us lie The relics of his ancestry-- The chiefs of Lindheim’s ancient race, Each in his last low dwelling-place. But one is absent--o’er _his_ grave The palmy shades of Syria wave; Far distant from his native Rhine, He died unmourn’d, in Palestine! The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, To perish by a brother’s hand! Peace to his soul! though o’er his bed No dirge be pour’d, no tear be shed, Though all he loved his name forget, _They_ live who shall avenge him yet!”

“Accuser! how to thee alone Became the fearful secret known?”

“There is an hour when vain remorse First wakes in her eternal force; When pardon may not be retrieved, When conscience will not be deceived. He that beheld the victim bleed, Beheld, and aided in the deed-- When earthly fears had lost their power Reveal’d the tale in such an hour, Unfolding, with his latest breath, All that gave keener pangs to death.”

“By Him, th’ All-seeing and Unseen, Who is for ever, and hath been, And by th’ Atoner’s cross adored, And by th’ avenger’s holy sword, By truth eternal and divine, Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?” --“The cross upon my heart is prest, I hold the dagger to my breast; If false the tale whose truth I swear, Be mine the murderer’s doom to bear!”

Then sternly rose the dread reply-- “His days are number’d--he must die! There is no shadow of the night So deep as to conceal his flight; Earth doth not hold so lone a waste But there his footsteps shall be traced; Devotion hath no shrine so blest That there in safety he may rest. Where’er he treads, let Vengeance there Around him spread her secret snare! In the busy haunts of men, In the still and shadowy glen, When the social board is crown’d, When the wine-cup sparkles round; When his couch of sleep is prest, And a dream his spirit’s guest; When his bosom knows no fear, Let the dagger still be near, Till, sudden as the lightning’s dart, Silent and swift it reach his heart! One warning voice, one fearful word, Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, Then vainly may the guilty fly, Unseen, unaided,--he must die! Let those he loves prepare his tomb, Let friendship lure him to his doom! Perish his deeds, his name, his race, Without a record or a trace! Away! be watchful, swift, and free, To wreak th’ invisible’s decree. ’Tis pass’d--th’ avenger claims his prey: On to the chase of death--away!”

And all was still. The sweeping blast Caught not a whisper as it pass’d; The shadowy forms were seen no more, The tombs deserted as before; And the wide forest waved immense In dark and lone magnificence. In Lindheim’s towers the feast had closed The song was hush’d, the bard reposed; Sleep settled on the weary guest, And the castle’s lord retired to rest. To rest! The captive doom’d to die May slumber, when his hour is nigh; The seaman, when the billows foam, Rock’d on the mast, may dream of home; The warrior, on the battle’s eve, May win from care a short reprieve: But earth and heaven alike deny Their peace to guilt’s o’erwearied eye; And night, that brings to grief a calm, To toil a pause, to pain a balm, Hath spells terrific in her course, Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse-- Voices, that long from earth had fled, And steps and echoes from the dead; And many a dream whose forms arise Like a darker world’s realities! Call them not vain illusions--born, But for the wise and brave to scorn! Heaven, that the penal doom defers, Hath yet its thousand ministers, To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, In shade, in silence, and alone, Concentrating in one brief hour Ages of retribution’s power! --If thou wouldst know the lot of those, Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, Ah! seek them not where pleasure’s throng Are listening to the voice of song; Seek them not where the banquet glows, And the red vineyard’s nectar flows: There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek, The eye of feverish joy may speak, And smiles, the ready mask of pride, The canker-worm within may hide. Heed not those signs! they but delude; Follow, and mark their solitude!

The song is hush’d, the feast is done, And Lindheim’s lord remains alone-- Alone in silence and unrest, With the dread secret of his breast; Alone with anguish and with fear, --There needs not an avenger here! Behold him!--Why that sudden start? Thou hear’st the beating of thy heart! Thou hear’st the night-wind’s hollow sigh, Thou hear’st the rustling tapestry! No sound but these may near thee be; Sleep! all things earthly sleep--but thee.

No! there are murmurs on the air, And a voice is heard that cries--“Despair!” And he who trembles fain would deem ’Twas the whisper of a waking dream. Was it but this? Again, ’tis there: Again is heard--“Despair! Despair!” ’Tis past--its tones have slowly died In echoes on the mountain side; Heard but by him, they rose, they fell. He knew their fearful meaning well, And shrinking from the midnight gloom, As from the shadow of the tomb, Yet shuddering, turn’d in pale dismay, When broke the dawn’s first kindling ray, And sought, amidst the forest wild, Some shade where sunbeam never smiled.

Yes! hide thee, guilt! The laughing morn Wakes in a heaven of splendour born! The storms that shook the mountain crest Have sought their viewless world of rest. High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, Soars the young eagle in the blaze, Exulting, as he wings his way, To revel in the fount of day; And brightly past his banks of vine, In glory, flows the monarch Rhine; And joyous peals the vintage song His wild luxuriant shores along, As peasant bands, from rock and dell, Their strains of choral transport swell; And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, Aspiring to the realm of storms, And woods around, and waves below, Catch the red Orient’s deepening glow, That lends each tower, and convent spire, A tinge of its ethereal fire.

Swell high the song of festal hours! Deck ye the shrine with living flowers! Let music o’er the waters breathe! Let beauty twine the bridal wreath! While she, whose blue eye laughs in light, Whose cheek with love’s own hue is bright, The fair-hair’d maid of Lindheim’s hall, Wakes to her nuptial festival. Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar To worlds the soul would fain explore, When, for her own blest country pining, Its beauty o’er her thought is shining, Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye Was all one beam of ecstasy! Whose glorious brow no traces wore Of guilt, or sorrow known before! Whose smile, undimm’d by aught of earth, A sunbeam of immortal birth, Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying, Where love and joy are both undying! E’en thus--a vision of delight, A beam to gladden mortal sight, A flower whose head no storm had bow’d, Whose leaves ne’er droop’d beneath a cloud,-- Thus, by the world unstain’d, untried, Seem’d that beloved and lovely bride; A being all too soft and fair One breath of earthly woe to bear! Yet lives there many a lofty mind, In light and fragile form enshrined; And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye Hide strength to suffer and to die! Judge not of woman’s heart in hours That strew her path with summer flowers, When joy’s full cup is mantling high, When flattery’s blandishments are nigh; Judge her not then! within her breast Are energies unseen, that rest! They wait their call--and grief alone May make the soul’s deep secrets known. Yes! let her smile midst pleasure’s train, Leading the reckless and the vain! Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, Besprinkled with the martyr’s blood; Her voice the patriot’s heart hath steel’d, Her spirit glow’d on battle-field; Her courage freed from dungeon’s gloom The captive brooding o’er his doom; Her faith the fallen monarch saved, Her love the tyrant’s fury braved; No scene of danger or despair, But she hath won her triumph there!

Away! nor cloud the festal morn With thoughts of boding sadness born! Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, Fair daughter of a noble line! Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, Watching, while soft the morning air Parts on thy brow the sunny hair, Yon bark, that o’er the calm blue tide Bears thy loved warrior to his bride-- Him, whose high deeds romantic praise Hath hallow’d with a thousand lays.

He came--that youthful chief,--he came That favour’d lord of love and fame! His step was hurried--as if one Who seeks a voice within to shun; His cheek was varying, and express’d The conflict of a troubled breast; His eye was anxious--doubt, and dread, And a stem grief, might there be read: Yet all that mark’d his alter’d mien Seem’d struggling to be still unseen. --With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, Young Ella met the brow austere, And the wild look, which seem’d to fly The timid welcome of her eye. Was that a lover’s gaze, which chill’d The soul, its awful sadness thrill’d? A lover’s brow, so darkly fraught With all the heaviest gloom of thought? She trembled--ne’er to grief inured, By its dread lessons ne’er matured, Unused to meet a glance of less Than all a parent’s tenderness, Shuddering she felt, through every sense, The deathlike faintness of suspense.

High o’er the windings of the flood, On Lindheim’s terraced rocks they stood, Whence the free sight afar might stray O’er that imperial river’s way, Which, rushing from its Alpine source, Makes one long triumph of its course, Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, Midst Nature’s noblest pageantry. But they, o’er that majestic scene, With clouded brow and anxious mien, In silence gazed!--for Ella’s heart Fear’d its own terrors to impart; And he, who vainly strove to hide His pangs, with all a warrior’s pride, Seem’d gathering courage to unfold Some fearful tale, that must be told.

At length his mien, his voice, obtain’d A calm, that seem’d by conflicts gain’d, As thus he spoke--“Yes! gaze a while On the bright scenes that round thee smile; For, if thy love be firm and true, Soon must thou bid their charms adieu! A fate hangs o’er us, whose decree Must bear me far from them or thee; Our path is one of snares and fear, I lose thee, if I linger here! Droop not, beloved! thy home shall rise As fair, beneath far-distant skies; As fondly tenderness and truth Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. But speak! and, when yon hallow’d shrine Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more To tread thine own loved mountain shore, But share and soothe, repining not, The bitterness of exile’s lot?”

“Ulric! thou know’st how dearly loved The scenes where first my childhood roved; The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme Above our own majestic stream, The halls where first my heart beat high To the proud songs of chivalry. All, all are dear--yet _these_ are ties Affection well may sacrifice; Loved though they be, where’er thou art, _There_ is the country of my heart! Yet is there one, who, reft of me, Were lonely as a blasted tree; One, who still hoped my hand should close His eyes, in Nature’s last repose; Eve gathers round him--on his brow Already rests the wintry snow; His form is bent, his features wear The deepening lines of age and care; His faded eye hath lost its fire;-- Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire? Yet tell me all--thy woes impart, My Ulric! to a faithful heart, Which sooner far--oh! doubt not this-- Would share _thy_ pangs, than others’ bliss!”

“Ella, what wouldst thou?--’tis a tale Will make that cheek as marble pale! Yet what avails it to conceal All thou too soon must know and feel? It must, it must be told--prepare, And nerve that gentle heart to bear. But I--oh, was it then for _me_ The herald of thy woes to be! Thy soul’s bright calmness to destroy, And wake thee first from dreams of joy? Forgive!--I would not ruder tone Should make the fearful tidings known, I would not that unpitying eyes Should coldly watch thine agonies! Better ’twere mine--that task severe, To cloud thy breast with grief and fear.

“Hast thou not heard, in legends old, Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, Of those who meet in cave or glen, Far from the busy walks of men; Those who mysterious vigils keep, When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep, To judge of crimes, like Him on high, In stillness and in secrecy? Th’ unknown avengers, whose decree ’Tis fruitless to resist or flee? Whose name hath cast a spell of power O’er peasant’s cot and chieftain’s tower? Thy sire--oh, Ella! hope is fled! Think of him, mourn him, as the dead! Their sentence, theirs, hath seal’d his doom, And thou may’st weep as o’er his tomb! Yes, weep!--relieve thy heart oppress’d, Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast! Thy cheek is cold--thy tearless eye Seems fix’d in frozen vacancy. Oh, gaze not thus!--thy silence break: Speak! if ’tis but in anguish, speak!”

She spoke at length, in accents low, Of wild and half-indignant woe: --“_He_ doom’d to perish! _he_ decreed By their avenging arm to bleed! _He_, the renown’d in holy fight, The Paynim’s scourge, the Christian’s might! Ulric! what mean’st thou?--not a thought Of that high mind with guilt is fraught! Say, for which glorious trophy won, Which deed of martial prowess done, Which battle-field, in days gone by, Gain’d by his valour, must he die? Away! ’tis not _his_ lofty name Their sentence hath consign’d to shame-- ’Tis not his life they seek. Recall Thy words, or say he shall not fall!”

Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief Gave pleading softness to her grief: “And wilt thou not, by all the ties Of our affianced love,” she cries, “By all my soul hath fix’d on thee, Of cherish’d hope for years to be, Wilt _thou_ not aid him? wilt not thou Shield his gray head from danger now? And didst thou not, in childhood’s morn, That saw our young affection born, Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, Sharing his parent smile with me? Kind, gentle Ulric! best beloved! Now be thy faith in danger proved! Though snares and terrors round him wait, _Thou_ wilt not leave him to his fate! Turn not away in cold disdain! --Shall thine own Ella plead in vain? How art thou changed! and must I bear That frown, that stern, averted air? What mean they?”

“Maiden, need’st thou ask? These features wear no specious mask. Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye With characters of mystery? This--_this_ is anguish! Can it be! And plead’st thou for my sire to _me_? Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give, He must not meet my sight--and live! Well may’st thou shudder! Of the band Who watch in secret o’er the land, Whose thousand swords ’tis vain to shun, Th’ unknown, th’ unslumbering--I am one! _My_ arm defend him! What were _then_ Each vow that binds the souls of men, Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal’d By rites that may not be reveal’d? --A breeze’s breath, an echo’s tone, A passing sound, forgot when gone! Nay, shrink not from me--I would fly, That he by other hands may die! What! think’st thou I would live to trace Abhorrence in that angel face? Beside thee should the lover stand, The father’s life-blood on his brand? No! I have bade my home adieu, For other scenes mine eyes must view. Look on me, love! Now all is known, O Ella! must I fly alone?”

But she was changed. Scarce heaved breath; She stood like one prepared for death, And wept no more; then, casting down From her fair brows the nuptial crown, As joy’s last vision from her heart, Cried, with sad firmness, “We must part! ’Tis past! These bridal flowers, so frail They may not brook one stormy gale, Survive--too dear as still thou art-- Each hope they imaged;--we must part! One struggle yet--and all is o’er: We love--and may we meet no more! Oh! little know’st thou of the power Affection lends in danger’s hour, To deem that fate should thus divide My footsteps from a father’s side! Speed thou to other shores--I go To share his wanderings and his woe. Where’er his path of thorns may lead, Whate’er his doom, by heaven decreed, If there be guardian powers above To nerve the heart of filial love, If courage may be won by prayer, Or strength by duty--I can bear! Farewell!--though in that sound be years Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, Though the soul vibrate to its knell Of joys departed--yet, farewell!

Was _this_ the maid who seem’d, erewhile, Born but to meet life’s vernal smile? A being, almost on the wing, As an embodied breeze of spring? A child of beauty and of bliss, Sent from some purer sphere to this-- Not, in her exile, to sustain The trial of one earthly pain; But, as a sunbeam, on to move, Wakening all hearts to joy and love? That airy form, with footsteps free, And radiant glance--could this be she? From her fair cheek the rose was gone, Her eye’s blue sparkle thence had flown; Of all its vivid glow bereft, Each playful charm her lip had left. But what were these? on that young face, Far nobler beauty fill’d their place! ’Twas not the pride that scorns to bend, Though all the bolts of heaven descend; Not the fierce grandeur of despair, That half exults its fate to dare; Nor that wild energy which leads Th’ enthusiast to fanatic deeds: _Her_ mien, by sorrow unsubdued, Was fix’d in silent fortitude; Not in its haughty strength elate, But calmly, mournfully sedate. ’Twas strange, yet lovely to behold That spirit in so fair a mould, As if a rose-tree’s tender form, Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm.

One look she cast, where firmness strove With the deep pangs of parting love; One tear a moment in her eye Dimm’d the pure light of constancy; And pressing, as to still her heart, She turn’d in silence to depart. But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought, Then started from his trance of thought:

“Stay thee! oh, stay!--It must not be-- All, all were well resign’d for thee! Stay! till my soul each vow disown, But those which make me thine alone! If there be guilt--there is no shrine More holy than that heart of thine: _There_ be my crime absolved--I take The cup of shame for thy dear sake. Of _shame_!--oh no! to virtue true, Where _thou_ art, there is glory too! Go now! and to thy sire impart, He hath a shield in Ulric’s heart, And thou a home! Remain, or flee, In life, in death--I follow thee!”

“There shall not rest one cloud of shame, O Ulric! on thy lofty name; There shall not one accusing word Against thy spotless faith be heard! Thy path is where the brave rush on, Thy course must be where palms are won: Where banners wave, and falchions glare, Son of the mighty! be thou there! Think on the glorious names that shine Along thy sire’s majestic line; Oh, last of that illustrious race! Thou wert not born to meet disgrace! Well, well I know each grief, each pain, Thy spirit nobly could sustain; E’en I unshrinking see them near, And what hast thou to do with fear? But when have warriors calmly borne The cold and bitter smile of scorn? ’Tis not for thee! thy soul hath force To cope with all things--but remorse; And this my brightest thought shall be, Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. Go! break thou not one solemn vow; Closed be the fearful conflict now; Go! but forget not how my heart Still at thy name will proudly start, When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell, Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well!” --And thus they parted. Why recall The scene of anguish known to all? The burst of tears, the blush of pride, That fain those fruitless tear’s would hide; The lingering look, the last embrace, Oh! what avails it to retrace? They parted--in that bitter word A thousand tones of grief are heard, Whose deeply-seated echoes rest In the fair cells of every breast. Who hath not known, who shall not know, That keen yet most familiar woe? Where’er affection’s home is found, It meets her on the holy ground; The cloud of every summer hour, The canker-worm of every flower. “Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, That mortal agony of love?

The autumn moon slept bright and still On fading wood and purple hill; The vintager had hush’d his lay, The fisher shunn’d the blaze of day, And silence, o’er each green recess, Brooded in misty sultriness. But soon a low and measured sound Broke on the deep repose around; From Lindheim’s tower a glancing oar Bade the stream ripple to the shore. Sweet was that sound of waves which parted The fond, the true, the noble-hearted; And smoothly seem’d the bark to glide, And brightly flow’d the reckless tide, Though, mingling with its current, fell The last warm tears of love’s farewell.

[198] The Odenwald, a forest district near the Rhine, adjoining the territories of Darmstadt.

## PART II.

Sweet is the gloom of forest shades, Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades, With all the thousand flowers that blow, A waste of loveliness, below. To him whose soul the world would fly, For nature’s lonely majesty: To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes, To lover, lost in fairy dreams, To hermit, whose prophetic thought By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, And, in the visions of his rest, Held bright communion with the blest: ’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike Silence and sound with awe can strike. The deep Eolian murmur made By sighing breeze and rustling shade, And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh, And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby: Or the dead stillness of the bowers, When dark the summer-tempest lowers; When silent nature seems to wait The gathering thunder’s voice of fate; When the aspen scarcely waves in air, And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare-- Each, each alike is awful there, And thrills the soul with feelings high, As some majestic harmony.

But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced Each green retreat in breathless haste-- Young Ella--linger’d not to hear The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear. The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play, The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay-- These charm not now; her sire she sought, With trembling frame, with anxious thought, And, starting if a forest deer But moved the rustling branches near, First felt that innocence may fear.

She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell, Where the free sunbeam never fell; ’Twas twilight there at summer noon, Deep night beneath the harvest moon, And scarce might one bright star be seen Gleaming the tangled boughs between; For many a giant rock around Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d, And the ancient oaks, that waved on high, Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky. There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave, Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave, And the wild flower, on its brink that grew, Caught not from day one glowing hue.

’Twas said, some fearful deed untold Had stain’d that scene in days of old; Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown A shade yet deeper than its own; And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom, Perchance above some victim’s tomb, O’ergrown with ivy and with moss, There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, Which, haply, silent record bore Of guilt and penitence of yore.

Who by that holy sign was kneeling, With brow unutter’d pangs revealing, Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer, And lifted eyes and streaming hair, And cheek, all pale as marble mould, Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold? Was it some image of despair Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear? --Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought To speak such agonies of thought! Those deathlike features gave to view A mortal’s pangs too deep and true! Starting he rose, with frenzied eye, As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh; He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild, Trembling he stood--before his child! On, with a burst of tears, she sprung, And to her father’s bosom clung.

“Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried, “Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride? Hence, leave me--leave me to await, In solitude, the storm of Fate; Thou know’st not what my doom may be, Ere evening comes in peace to thee.”

“My father! shall the joyous throng Swell high for me the bridal song? Shall the gay nuptial board be spread, The festal garland bind my head, And thou in grief, in peril, roam, And make the wilderness thy home? No! I am here with thee to share All suffering mortal strength may bear; And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree, In life, in death, in chains, or free-- Well, well I feel, in thee secure; Thy heart and hand alike are pure!”

Then was there meaning in his look, Which deep that trusting spirit shook; So wildly did each glance express The strife of shame and bitterness,-- As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence! Is this the mien of Innocence? This furrow’d brow, this restless eye-- Read thou this fearful tale, and fly! Is it enough? or must I seek For _words_, the tale of guilt to speak? Then be it so--I will not doom Thy youth to wither in its bloom; I will not see thy tender frame Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame. No! though I teach thee to abhor The sire so fondly loved before; Though the dread effort rend my breast, Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest! Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn Away in horror and in scorn; Thy looks, that still through all the past Affection’s gentlest beams have cast, As lightning on my heart will fall, And I must mark and bear it all! Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved, Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived!

“I linger--let me speed the tale Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail. Why should I falter thus to tell What heaven so long hath known too well? Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d, _There_ hath a brother’s blood appeal’d! He died--’twas not where banners wave, And war-steeds trample on the brave; He died--it was in Holy Land-- Yet fell he not by Paynim hand; He sleeps not with his sires at rest, With trophied shield and knightly crest; Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, --But I can tell thee where he lies! It was a wild and savage spot, But once beheld--and ne’er forgot! I see it now--that haunted scene My spirit’s dwelling still hath been; And he is there--I see him laid Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade. The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh Bears witness with its crimson dye! I see th’ accusing glance he raised, Ere that dim eye by death was glazed; --Ne’er will that parting look forgive! I still behold it--and I live! I live! from hope, from mercy driven, A mark for all the shafts of heaven!

“Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won My birth-right; and my child, my son, Heir to high name, high fortune born, Was doom’d to penury and scorn, An alien midst his fathers’ halls, An exile from his native walls. Could I bear this? The rankling thought, Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought; Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile, And when his accents lisp’d my name, They woke my inmost heart to flame! I struggled--are there evil powers That claim their own ascendant hours? --Oh! what should thine unspotted soul Or know or fear of _their_ control? Why on the fearful conflict dwell? Vainly I struggled, and I fell-- Cast down from every hope of bliss-- Too well thou know’st to what abyss!

“’Twas done!--that moment hurried by To darken all eternity. Years roll’d away, long evil years, Of woes, of fetters, and of fears; Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d. For, long a captive in the lands Where Arabs tread their burning sands, The haunted midnight of the mind Was round me while in chains I pined, By all forgotten, save by one Dread presence--which I could not shun. --How oft, when o’er the silent waste Nor path nor landmark might be traced, When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray, The Wanderers of the Desert lay, And stars, as o’er an ocean shone, Vigil I kept--but not alone! That form, that image, from the dead, Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread! I’ve seen it in the fiery blast, I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d; Beside the Desert’s fount it stood, Tinging the clear cold wave with blood; And e’en when viewless, by the fear Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near! --_Was_ near!--I feel th’ unearthly thrill, Its power is on my spirit still! A mystic influence, undefined, The spell, the shadow of my mind!

“Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on; One last farewell, and then begone! Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow, And let me read thine aspect _now_! No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed. Slow came the day that broke my chain, But I at length was free again; And freedom brings a burst of joy, E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy. I thought upon my own fair towers, My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers, And in a father’s visions, press’d Thee and thy brother to my breast. --’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet Recall the moment when we met? Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, Thy arms around me fondly clung; Scarce aught than infant seraph less Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness. But he was gone--that son for whom I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom; He for whose sake alone were given My peace on earth, my hope in heaven-- He met me not. A ruthless band, Whose name with terror fill’d the land, Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild Had reft the father of his child. Foes to my race, the hate they nursed, Full on that cherish’d scion burst. Unknown his fate.--No parent nigh, My boy! my first-born! didst thou die? Or did they spare thee for a life Of shame, of rapine, and of strife? Livest thou, unfriended, unallied, A wanderer lost, without a guide? Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom Blest were the darkness of the tomb!

“Ella! ’tis done--my guilty heart Before thee all unveil’d--depart! Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly From one so stain’d, so lost as I; Yet peace to thine untainted breast, E’en though it hate me!--be thou blest! Farewell! thou shalt not linger here-- E’en now th’ avenger may be near: Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare, The dagger, may be ambush’d there; One hour--and haply all is o’er, And we must meet on earth no more. No, nor beyond!--to those pure skies Where thou shalt be, I may not rise; Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot, Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not! Speak once! to soothe this broken heart, Speak to me once! and then depart!”

But still--as if each pulse were dead, Mute--as the power of speech were fled, Pale--as if life-blood ceased to warm The marble beauty of her form; On the dark rock she lean’d her head, That seem’d as there ’twere riveted, And dropt the hands, till then which press’d Her burning brow, or throbbing breast. There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye, And from her lip there breathed no sigh, And on her brow no trace there dwelt That told she suffer’d or she felt. All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d, Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d; And long her sire, in wild dismay, Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away.

But life return’d. O’er that cold frame One deep convulsive shudder came; And a faint light her eye relumed, And sad resolve her mien assumed. But there was horror in the gaze, Which yet to his she dared not raise; And her sad accents, wild and low, As rising from a depth of woe, At first with hurried trembling broke, But gather’d firmness as she spoke. --“I leave thee not--whate’er betide, My footsteps shall not quit thy side; Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill, But yet thou art my father still! And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed, For some kind spirit, tenfold need, To speak of heaven’s absolving love, And waft desponding thought above. Is there not power in mercy’s wave The blood-stain from thy soul to lave? Is there not balm to heal despair, In tears, in penitence, in prayer? My father! kneel at His pure shrine Who died to expiate guilt like thine, Weep--and my tears with thine shall blend, Pray--while my prayers with thine ascend, And, as our mingling sorrows rise, Heaven will relent, though earth despise!”

“My child, my child! these bursting tears, The first mine eyes have shed for years, Though deepest conflicts they express, Yet flow not all in bitterness! Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart From desolation’s slumber start; Thy voice of pity and of love Seems o’er its icy depths to move E’en as a breeze of health, which brings Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. And there is mercy yet! I feel Its influence o’er my spirit steal; How welcome were each pang below, If guilt might be atoned by woe! Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven? Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven? Oh! if it yet avail to plead, If judgment be not yet decreed, Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, Till pardon shall be seal’d on high! Yet, yet I shrink!--Will Mercy shed Her dews upon this fallen head? --Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free Descend forgiveness, won by thee!”

They knelt--before the Cross, that sign Of love eternal and divine; That symbol, which so long hath stood A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood, Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved By the warm tears of nations saved. In one deep prayer their spirits blent, The guilty and the innocent; Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth, Age, soil’d with every stain of earth, Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, One sacrifice of agony. --Oh! blest, though bitter be their source-- Though dark the fountain of remorse, Blest are the tears which pour from thence, Th’ atoning stream of penitence! And let not pity check the tide By which the heart is purified; Let not vain comfort turn its course, Or timid love repress its force! Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand, To bear luxuriance o’er the land; Forbid the life-restoring rains To fall on Afric’s burning plains; Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode; But check thou not one holy tear Which Penitence devotes to God!

Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there-- So rude, that scarce might human eye Sustain their dread sublimity-- So awful, that the timid swain, Nurtured amidst their dark domain, Had peopled with unearthly forms Their mists, their forests, and their storms,-- She, whose blue eye of laughing light Once made each festal scene more bright; Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest, By torrent wave and mountain brow, Is wandering as an outcast now, To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief His shame, his terror, and his grief.

Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower, That blooms in solitary grace, And, faithful to its mouldering tower, Waves in the banner’s place? From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d, Time wins his heritage at last; The day of glory hath gone by, With all its pomp and minstrelsy: Yet still the flower of golden hues There loves its fragrance to diffuse, To fallen and forsaken things With constancy unalter’d clings, And, smiling o’er the wreck of state, With beauty clothes the desolate. --E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid, In all her light of youth array’d, Forsaking every joy below To soothe a guilty parent’s woe, And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime, To the dark ruin made by crime. Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes Smile on a purer sacrifice; Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine, More nobly brighter hopes resign! O’er her own pangs she brooded not, Nor sank beneath her bitter lot; No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth Still rose more buoyantly from earth, And drew from an eternal source Its gentle, yet triumphant force: Roused by affliction’s chastening might To energies more calmly bright, Like the wild harp of airy sigh, Woke by the storm to harmony! He that in mountain-holds hath sought A refuge for unconquer’d thought, A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child Might rear her altars in the wild, And fix her quenchless torch on high, A beacon for Eternity; Or they, whose martyr spirits wage Proud war with Persecution’s rage, And to the deserts bear the faith That bids them smile on chains and death; Well may _they_ draw, from all around, Of grandeur clothed in form and sound, From the deep power of earth and sky, Wild nature’s might of majesty, Strong energies, immortal fires, High hopes, magnificent desires!

But dark, terrific, and austere, To _him_ doth nature’s mien appear, Who midst her wilds would seek repose From guilty pangs and vengeful foes! For him the wind hath music dread, A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead; The forest’s whisper breathes a tone Appalling, as from worlds unknown; The mystic gloom of wood and cave Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave; In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart A blaze that seems to search his heart; The pure, eternal stars of night Upbraid him with their silent light; And the dread spirit, which pervades And hallows earth’s most lonely shades, In every scene, in every hour, Surrounds him with chastising power-- With nameless fear his soul to thrill, Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still!

’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day, And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way; The rustling pines, with a hollow sound, Foretold the tempest gathering round; And the skirts of the western clouds were spread With a tinge of wild and stormy red, That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers. But they, who far from cities fled, And shrunk from the print of human tread, Had reach’d a desert scene unknown, So strangely wild, so deeply lone, That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d And undefined, their souls oppress’d. Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d, Lay like the ruins of a world, Left by an earthquake’s final throes In deep and desolate repose-- Things of eternity whose forms Bore record of ten thousand storms! While, rearing its colossal crest In sullen grandeur o’er the rest, One, like a pillar, vast and rude, Stood monarch of the solitude. Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand Th’ enduring monument was plann’d; Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by, Had shaped its rough immensity, To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood, A temple meet for rites of blood. But they were gone, who might have told That secret of the times of old; And there, in silent scorn it frown’d, O’er all its vast coevals round. Darkly those giant masses lower’d, Countless and motionless they tower’d; No wild-flower o’er their summits hung, No fountain from their caverns sprung; Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear Murmur’d a sound of waters near, With music deep of lulling falls, And louder gush, at intervals. Unknown its source--nor spring nor stream Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam, But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, Arose that mystic voice of waves.[199] Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene, One chosen spot of gentler mien Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye Of shelter from the tempest nigh. Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore, The sculptured saint that crown’d its door: Less welcome now were monarch’s dome, Than that low cell, some hermit’s home. Thither the outcasts bent their way, By the last lingering gleam of day; When from a cavern’d rock, which cast Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d, A form, a warrior form of might, As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight. His port was lofty--yet the heart Shrunk from him with recoiling start; His mien was youthful--yet his face Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace; Nor chivalrous nor tender thought Its traces on his brow had wrought Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, But calm and cold severity, A spirit haughtily austere, Stranger to pity as to fear. It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil O’er that dark brow and visage pale, Leaving the searcher nought to guess, All was so fix’d and passionless.

He spoke--and they who heard the tone Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. “I’ve sought thee far in forest bowers, I’ve sought thee long in peopled towers, I’ve borne th’ dagger of th’ Unknown Through scenes explored by me alone; My search is closed--nor toils nor fears Repel the servant of the Seers; We meet--’tis vain to strive or fly: Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!”

Then with clasp’d hands the fair-hair’d maid Sank at his feet, and wildly pray’d:-- “Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel! Oh! thou art human, and canst feel! Hear me! if e’er ’twas thine to prove The blessing of a parent’s love; By thine own father’s hoary hair, By her who gave thee being, spare! Did they not, o’er thy infant years, Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears! Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers, As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!”

But cold th’ Avenger’s look remain’d, His brow its rigid calm maintain’d: “Maiden! ’tis vain--my bosom ne’er Was conscious of a parent’s care; The nurture of my infant years Froze in my soul the source of tears; ’Tis not for me to pause or melt, Or feel as happier hearts have felt. Away! the hour of fate goes by: Thy prayers are fruitless--he must die!”

“Rise, Ella! rise!” with steadfast brow The father spoke--unshrinking now, As if from heaven a martyr’s strength Had settled on his soul at length: “Kneel thou no more, my noble child, Thou by no taint of guilt defiled; Kneel not to man!--for mortal prayer, Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare? Since hope of earthly aid is flown, Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone, And know, to calm thy suffering heart, My spirit is resign’d to part. Trusting in Him who reads and knows This guilty breast, with all its woes. Rise! I would bless thee once again, Be still, be firm--for all is vain!”

And she _was_ still. She heard him not-- Her prayers were hush’d, her pangs forgot; All thought, all memory pass’d away, Silent and motionless she lay, In a brief death, a blest suspense Alike of agony and sense. She saw not when the dagger gleam’d In the last red light from the west that stream’d; She mark’d not when the life-blood’s flow Came rushing to the mortal blow; While, unresisting, sank her sire, Yet gather’d firmness to expire, Mingling a warrior’s courage high With a penitent’s humility. And o’er him there th’ Avenger stood, And watch’d the victim’s ebbing blood, Still calm, as if his faithful hand Had but obey’d some just command, Some power whose stern, yet righteous will He deem’d it virtue to fulfil, And triumph’d, when the palm was won, For duty’s task austerely done.

But a feeling dread and undefined, A mystic presage of the mind, With strange and sudden impulse ran Chill through the heart of the dying man; And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath, And it seem’d as fear suspended death, And nature from her terrors drew Fresh energy and vigour new.

“Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne’er Was conscious of a parent’s care; Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood’s years, Froze in thy soul the source of tears: The time will come, when thou, with me, The judgment throne of God wilt see-- Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then, By His blest love who died for men, By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow, Avenger! I adjure thee now! To him who bleeds beneath thy steel, Thy lineage and thy name reveal. And haste thee! for his closing ear Hath little more on earth to hear-- Haste! for the spirit, almost flown, Is lingering for thy words alone.”

Then first a shade, resembling fear, Pass’d o’er th’ Avenger’s mien austere; A nameless awe his features cross’d, Soon in their haughty coldness lost.

“What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild, And bid them tell thee of their child! Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, Whose tempests were his lullabies! His chambers were the cave and wood, His fosterers men of wrath and blood; Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, By wrongs to desperation driven! Who, in their pupil, now could trace The features of a nobler race? Yet such was mine!--if one who cast A look of anguish o’er the past, Bore faithful record on the day When penitent in death he lay. But still deep shades my prospects veil; He died--and told but half the tale. With him it sleeps--I only know Enough for stern and silent woe, For vain ambition’s deep regret, For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, For dreams of pride, that vainly tell How high a lot had suited well The heir of some illustrious line, Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!”

Then swift through Albert’s bosom pass’d One pang, the keenest and the last, Ere with his spirit fled the fears, The sorrows, and the pangs of years; And, while his gray hairs swept the dust, Faltering he murmur’d, “Heaven is just! For thee that deed of guilt was done, By thee avenged, my son! my son!” --The day was closed--the moonbeam shed Light on the living and the dead, And as through rolling clouds it broke, Young Ella from her trance awoke-- Awoke to bear, to feel, to know E’en more than all an orphan’s woe. Oh! ne’er did moonbeam’s light serene With beauty clothe a sadder scene! There, cold in death, the father slept-- There, pale in woe, the daughter wept! Yes! _she_ might weep--but one stood nigh, With horror in his tearless eye, That eye which ne’er again shall close In the deep quiet of repose; No more on earth beholding aught Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought. But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid _His_ deeper woe had scarce survey’d, Till his wild voice reveal’d a tale Which seem’d to bid the heavens turn pale! He call’d her, “Sister!” and the word In anguish breathed, in terror heard, Reveal’d enough: all else were weak-- That sound a thousand pangs could speak. He knelt beside that breathless clay, Which, fix’d in utter stillness, lay-- Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace, Each line of that unconscious face; Knelt, till his eye could bear no more Those marble features to explore; Then, starting, turning, as to shun The image thus by Memory won, A wild farewell to her he bade, Who by the dead in silence pray’d; And, frenzied by his bitter doom, Fled thence--to find all earth a tomb!

Days pass’d away--and Rhine’s fair shore In the light of summer smiled once more; The vines were purpling on the hill, And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still. There came a bark up the noble stream, With pennons that shed a golden gleam, With the flash of arms, and the voice of song, Gliding triumphantly along; For warrior-forms were glittering there, Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air; And as the tones of oar and wave Their measured cadence mingling gave, ’Twas thus th’ exulting chorus rose, While many an echo swell’d the close:--

“From the fields where dead and dying On their battle-bier are lying, Where the blood unstanch’d is gushing, Where the steed uncheck’d is rushing, Trampling o’er the noble-hearted, Ere the spirit yet be parted; Where each breath of heaven is swaying Knightly plumes and banners playing, And the clarion’s music swelling Calls the vulture from his dwelling; He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine! To his own fair woods, enclosing Vales in sunny peace reposing, Where his native stream is laving Banks, with golden harvests waving, And the summer light is sleeping On the grape, through tendrils peeping; To the halls where harps are ringing, Bards the praise of warriors singing, Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, Joyous voices mingling sweetly; Where the cheek of mirth is glowing, And the wine-cup brightly flowing, He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!”

He came--he sought his Ella’s bowers, He traversed Lindheim’s lonely towers; But voice and footstep thence had fled, As from the dwellings of the dead, And the sounds of human joy and woe Gave place to the moan of the wave below. The banner still the rampart crown’d, But the tall rank grass waved thick around Still hung the arms of a race gone by In the blazon’d halls of their ancestry, But they caught no more, at fall of night, The wavering flash of the torch’s light, And they sent their echoes forth no more To the Minnesinger’s[200] tuneful lore, For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone, And the hearts were cold that loved its tone; And the soul of the chord lay mute and still, Save when the wild wind bade it thrill, And woke from its depths a dream-like moan, For life, and power, and beauty gone.

The warrior turn’d from that silent scene, Where a voice of woe had welcome been; And his heart was heavy with boding thought, As the forest-paths alone he sought. He reach’d a convent’s fane, that stood Deep bosom’d in luxuriant wood; Still, solemn, fair--it seem’d a spot Where earthly care might be all forgot, And sounds and dreams of heaven alone To musing spirit might be known.

And sweet e’en then were the sounds that rose On the holy and profound repose. Oh! they came o’er the warrior’s breast Like a glorious anthem of the blest; And fear and sorrow died away Before the full majestic lay. He enter’d the secluded fane, Which sent forth that inspiring strain; He gazed--the hallow’d pile’s array Was that of some high festal day; Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound, Flowers of all scents were strew’d around; The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh, Blest on the altar to smile and die; And a fragrant cloud from the censer’s breath Half hid the sacred pomp beneath; And still the peal of choral song Swell’d the resounding aisles along; Wakening, in its triumphant flow, Deep echoes from the graves below.

Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, Doth summer’s rose that scene adorn? Why breathes the incense to the sky? Why swells th’ exulting harmony? --And see’st thou not yon form, so light It seems half floating on the sight, As if the whisper of a gale, That did but wave its snowy veil, Might bear it from the earth afar, A lovely but receding star? Know that devotion’s shrine e’en now Receives that youthful vestal’s vow-- For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise, A jubilee of sacrifice! Mark yet a moment! from her brow Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, Ere yet a darker mantle hide The charms to heaven thus sanctified: Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam, That ne’er shall fade from memory’s dream. A moment! oh! to Ulric’s soul, Poised between hope and fear’s control, What slow, unmeasured hours went by, Ere yet suspense grew certainty. It came at length. Once more that face Reveal’d to man its mournful grace; A sunbeam on its features fell, As if to bear the world’s farewell; And doubt was o’er. His heart grew chill: ’Twas she--though changed--’twas Ella still! Though now her once-rejoicing mien Was deeply, mournfully serene; Though clouds her eye’s blue lustre shaded, And the young cheek beneath had faded, Well, well he knew the form, which cast Light on his soul through all the past! ’Twas with him on the battle-plain, ’Twas with him on the stormy main: ’Twas in his visions, when the shield Pillow’d his head on tented field; ’Twas a bright beam that led him on Where’er a triumph might be won-- In danger as in glory nigh, An angel-guide to victory!

She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze. Was it some vain illusion, wrought By frenzy of impassion’d thought? Some phantom, such as Grief hath power To summon in her wandering hour? No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d-- Too deeply loved, too late return’d! --A fever’d blush, a sudden start, Spoke the last weakness of her heart; ’Twas vanquish’d soon--the hectic red A moment flush’d her check, and fled. Once more serene--her steadfast eye Look’d up as to Eternity; Then gazed on Ulric with an air, That said--the home of Love is _there_!

Yes! _there_ alone it smiled for him, Whose eye before that look grew dim. Not long ’twas his e’en _thus_ to view The beauty of its calm adieu; Soon o’er those features, brightly pale, Was cast th’ impenetrable veil; And, if one human sigh were given By the pure bosom vow’d to heaven, ’Twas lost, as many a murmur’d sound Of grief, “not loud, but deep,” is drown’d, In hymns of joy, which proudly rise To tell the calm untroubled skies That earth hath banish’d care and woe, And man holds festivals below!

[199] The original of the scene here described is presented by the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse:--“Des masses énormes de rochers, entassées l’une sur l’autre depuis le sommet de la montagne jusqu’à son pied, viennent y présenter un aspect superbe qu’ aucune description ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des géans, qui en se livrant un combat du haut des montagnes, lancèrent les uns sur les autres ces énormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beaucoup de peine, jusqu’au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant un sentier qui passe à côté de cette chaine de rochers. On entend continuellement un bruit sourd, qui parait venir d’un ruisseau au dessous des rochers; mais on a beau descendre, on se glissant à travers les ouvertures qui s’y trouvent, on ne découvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensäule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu’à la moitié de la montagne; c’est un bloc de granit taillé, d’une longueur de 30 pieds et d’un diamétre de 4 pieds. Il y a plus de probabilité de croire que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une colonne pour l’ériger en l’honneur de leur dieu Odin, que de prétendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains aient eu le dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d’une forme presque carrée, qu’ on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel du géant,) qui, à en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, était destiné à servir de piédestal à la colonnade susdite.”--_Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin._

[200] Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the German minstrels in the Middle Ages.

THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS.

Call it not loneliness to dwell In woodland shade or hermit dell, Or the deep forest to explore, Or wander Alpine regions o’er; For nature there all joyous reigns, And fills with life her wild domains:-- A bird’s light wing may break the air, A wave, a leaf, may murmur there; A bee the mountain flowers may seek, A chamois bound from peak to peak; An eagle, rushing to the sky, Wake the deep echoes with his cry; And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, Some voice though not of man is near. But he, whose weary step hath traced Mysterious Afric’s awful waste-- Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath view’d, Can tell thee what is solitude! It is to traverse lifeless plains, Where everlasting stillness reigns, And billowy sands and dazzling sky Seem boundless as infinity! It is to sink, with speechless dread, In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, Sever’d from earthly being’s trace, Alone amidst eternal space!

’Tis noon--and fearfully profound, Silence is on the desert round; Alone she reigns, above, beneath, With all the attributes of death! No bird the blazing heaven may dare, No insect bide the scorching air; The ostrich, though of sunborn race, Seeks a more shelter’d dwelling-place; The lion slumbers in his lair, The serpent shuns the noontide glare. But slowly wind the patient train Of camels o’er the blasted plain, Where they and man may brave alone The terrors of the burning zone. --Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high, As a volcano, flame the sky; Shrink not, though as a furnace glow The dark-red seas of sand below; Though not a shadow, save your own, Across the dread expanse is thrown. Mark! where your feverish lips to lave, Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave! Urge your tired camels on, and take Your rest beside yon glistening lake; Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring, And fan your brows with lighter wing. Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide, Reflects the date-tree on its side-- Speed on! pure draughts and genial air, And verdant shade, await you there. Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown That hath not trod the burning zone! Forward they press--they gaze dismay’d-- The waters of the desert fade! Melting to vapours that elude The eye, the lip, they vainly woo’d.[201]

What meteor comes? A purple haze Hath half obscured the noontide rays:[202] Onward it moves in swift career, A blush upon the atmosphere. Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom, Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom! Bow down your faces--till the blast On its red wing of flame hath pass’d, Far bearing o’er the sandy wave The viewless Angel of the Grave.

It came--’tis vanish’d--but hath left The wanderers e’en of hope bereft; The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame. Faint with despondence, worn with toil, They sink upon the burning soil, Resign’d, amidst those realms of gloom, To find their deathbed and their tomb.[203]

But onward still!--yon distant spot Of verdure can deceive you not; Yon palms, which tremulously seem’d Reflected as the waters gleam’d, Along th’ horizon’s verge display’d, Still rear their slender colonnade-- A landmark, guiding o’er the plain The Caravan’s exhausted train. Fair is that little Isle of Bliss The desert’s emerald oasis! A rainbow on the torrent’s wave, A gem embosom’d in the grave, A sunbeam on a stormy day Its beauty’s image might convey! Beauty, in horror’s lap that sleeps, While silence round her vigil keeps.

Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid To slumber in th’ acacia shade: Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise Their aromatic breath diffuse; Where softer light the sunbeams pour Through the tall palm and sycamore; And the rich date luxuriant spreads Its pendant clusters o’er your heads. Nature once more, to seal your eyes, Murmurs her sweetest lullabies; Again each heart the music hails Of rustling leaves and sighing gales: And oh! to Afric’s child how dear The voice of fountains gushing near! Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams Of waving groves and rippling streams! Far be the serpent’s venom’d coil From the brief respite won by toil; Far be the awful shades of those Who deep beneath the sands repose-- The hosts, to whom the desert’s breath Bore swift and stern the call of death. Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade The freshness of the acacia shade, But gales of heaven your spirits bless, With life’s best balm--Forgetfulness! Till night from many an urn diffuse The treasures of her world of dews.

The day hath closed--the moon on high Walks in her cloudless majesty. A thousand stars to Afric’s heaven Serene magnificence have given-- Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame Shines forth eternally the same. Blest be their beams, whose holy light Shall guide the camel’s footsteps right, And lead, as with a track divine, The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine! --Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu! Again your lonely march pursue, While airs of night are freshly blowing, And heavens with softer beauty glowing.

’Tis silence all: the solemn scene Wears, at each step, a ruder mien; For giant-rocks, at distance piled, Cast their deep shadows o’er the wild. Darkly they rise--what eye hath view’d The caverns of their solitude? Away! within those awful cells The savage lord of Afric dwells! Heard ye his voice?--the lion’s roar Swells as when billows break on shore. Well may the camel shake with fear, And the steed pant--his foe is near. Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw Far o’er the waste, a ruddy glow; Keep vigil--guard the bright array Of flames that scare him from his prey; Within their magic circle press, O wanderers of the wilderness! Heap high the pile, and by its blaze, Tell the wild tales of elder days,-- Arabia’s wond’rous lore, that dwells On warrior deeds and wizard spells; Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these, Rising to vanish with the breeze; Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed Their light where mortal may not tread; And spirits, o’er whose pearly halls Th’ eternal billow heaves and falls. --With charms like these, of mystic power, Watchers! beguile the midnight hour.

Slowly that hour hath roll’d away, And star by star withdraws its ray. Dark children of the sun! again Your own rich orient hails his reign. He comes, but veil’d--with sanguine glare Tinging the mists that load the air; Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, Th’ approaching hurricane proclaim. ’Tis death’s red banner streams on high-- Fly to the rocks for shelter!--fly! Lo! dark’ning o’er the fiery skies, The pillars of the desert rise! On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, A giant-host, the heavens concealing, They move, like mighty genii-forms, Towering immense midst clouds and storms. Who shall escape!--with awful force The whirlwind bears them on their course; They join, they rush resistless on-- The landmarks of the plain are gone; The steps, the forms, from earth effaced, Of those who trod the burning waste! All whelm’d, all hush’d!--none left to bear Sad record how they perish’d there! No stone their tale of death shall tell-- The desert guards its mysteries well; And o’er th’ unfathom’d sandy deep, Where low their nameless relics sleep, Oft shall the future pilgrim tread, Nor know his steps are on the dead.

[201] The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water.

[202] See the description of the Simoom in Bruce’s Travels.

[203] The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers.

MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

[“Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him:--“Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate’s decree, and treat you as a public enemy.” Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the governor. “Go and tell him,” said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, “that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage.”--Plutarch.]

’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high With fierce resplendence fill’d th’ unclouded sky; No zephyr waved the palm’s majestic head, And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread; While desolate, beneath a blaze of light, Silent and lonely, as at dead of night, The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes Had strew’d their precious marble o’er the plains; Dark weeds and grass the column had o’ergrown, The lizard bask’d upon the altar stone; Whelm’d by the ruins of their own abodes, Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods; While near--dread offspring of the burning day! Coil’d midst forsaken halls the serpent lay.

There came an exile, long by fate pursued, To shelter in that awful solitude. Well did that wanderer’s high yet faded mien Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:-- Shadow’d, not veil’d, by locks of wintry snow, Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow’d brow; Time had not quench’d the terrors of his eye, Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency; While the deep meaning of his features told Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d, Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d; And still did power invest his stately form, Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm. --But slow his step--and where, not yet o’erthrown, Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone, Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, To slumber in its solitary shade. He slept--and darkly, on his brief repose, Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose. Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, The kingly shadow seem’d to lift his chain, Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!

“And sleep’st thou, Roman?” cried his voice austere; “Shall son of Latium find a refuge _here_? Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate, When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate! Go! with her children’s flower, the free, the brave, People the silent chambers of the grave: So shall the course of ages yet to be, More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!

“Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, I hear a voice that prophesies her doom; I see the trophies of her pride decay, And her long line of triumphs pass away, Lost in the depths of time--while sinks the star That led her march of heroes from afar! Lo! from the frozen forests of the North, The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth! Who shall awake the mighty?--will thy woe, City of thrones! disturb the realms below? Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries Summon their shadowy legions to arise, Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls! --Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, And their lost children bend the subject knee, Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high, A creature of the empyreal--thou, whose eye Was lightning to the earth--whose pinion waved In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved; Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er, And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more! Closed is thy regal course--thy crest is torn, And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn. The shaft hath reach’d thee!--rest with chiefs and kings, Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings; Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey, And share thy glorious heritage of day! But darker years shall mingle with the past, And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. O’er the seven hills I see destruction spread, And Empire’s widow veils with dust her head. Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine: Midst fallen palaces she sits alone, Calling heroic shades from ages gone, Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait To learn the fearful oracles of Fate!

“Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise! Wake to obey th’ avenging Destinies! Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country’s blood Shall swell and darken Tiber’s yellow flood! My children’s manès call--awake! prepare The feast they claim!--exult in Rome’s despair! Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies; Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among, Spare not the valiant, pity not the young! Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed, And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!”

The vision flies--a mortal step is near, Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear; He starts, he wakes to woe--before him stands Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief To seek on other shores a home for grief. --Silent the wanderer sat--but on his cheek The burning glow far more than words might speak; And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke Language where all th’ indignant soul awoke, Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern, And sovereign in despair, he cried, “Return! Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!”

A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

A FRAGMENT.

The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave, Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill, The wild wind slumbers in its cave, And heaven is cloudless--earth is still! The pile that crowns yon savage height With battlements of Gothic might, Rises in softer pomp array’d, Its massy towers half lost in shade, Half touch’d with mellowing light! The rays of night, the tints of time, Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone, O’er its rude strength and mien sublime, A placid smile have thrown. And far beyond, where wild and high, Bounding the pale blue summer sky, A mountain vista meets the eye, Its dark, luxuriant woods assume A pencil’d shade, a softer gloom: Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, Its torrents glitter through the night, While every cave and deep recess Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. Scarce moving on the glassy deep Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep; But darting from its side, How swiftly does its boat design A slender, silvery, waving line Of radiance o’er the tide! No sound is on the summer seas, But the low dashing of the oar, And faintly sighs the midnight breeze Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. That boat has reach’d the silent bay-- The dashing oar has ceased to play; The breeze has murmur’d and has died In forest shades, on ocean’s tide. No step, no tone, no breath of sound Disturbs the loneliness profound; And midnight spreads o’er earth and main A calm so holy and so deep, That voice of mortal were profane To break on nature’s sleep! It is the hour for thought to soar High o’er the cloud of earthly woes; For rapt devotion to adore-- For passion to repose; And virtue to forget her tears, In visions of sublimer spheres! For oh! those transient gleams of heaven, To calmer, purer spirits given, Children of hallow’d peace, are known In solitude and shade alone! Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, To blow beneath the midnight moon, The garish world they will not bless, But only live in loneliness!

Hark! did some note of plaintive swell Melt on the stillness of the air? Or was it fancy’s powerful spell That woke such sweetness there? For wild and distant it arose, Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose, When in lone wood, or mossy cave, He dreams beside some fountain wave, And fairy worlds delight the eyes Wearied with life’s realities.

Was it illusion? Yet again Rises and falls th’ enchanted strain, Mellow, and sweet, and faint-- As if some spirit’s touch had given The soul of sound to harp of heaven To soothe a dying saint! Is it the mermaid’s distant shell, Warbling beneath the moonlit wave? --Such witching tones might lure full well The seaman to his grave! Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, Wild, soft, aërial melodies! --Is it the song of woodland-fay From sparry grot, or haunted bower? Hark! floating on, the magic lay Draws near yon ivied tower! Now nearer still, the listening ear May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear; And accents low, as if in fear, Thus murmur, half suppress’d:-- “Awake! the moon is bright on high, The sea is calm, the bark is nigh, The world is hush’d to rest!” Then sinks the voice--the strain is o’er, Its last low cadence dies along the shore.

Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song, Swift from her tower she glides along; No echo to her tread awakes, Her fairy step no slumber breaks; And, in that hour of silence deep, While all around the dews of sleep O’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear, Her dark eye glistens with a tear. Half-wavering now, the varying cheek And sudden pause her doubts bespeak, The lip now flush’d, now pale as death, The trembling frame, the fluttering breath! Oh! in that moment, o’er her soul What struggling passions claim control! Fear, duty, love, in conflict high, By turns have won th’ ascendency; And as, all tremulously bright, Streams o’er her face the beam of night, What thousand mix’d emotions play O’er that fair face, and melt away. Like forms whose quick succession gleams O’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams; Like the swift glancing lights that rise Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies, And traverse ocean o’er; So in that full, impassion’d eye The changeful meanings rise and die, Just seen--and then no more! But oh! too short that pause. Again Thrills to her heart that witching strain:-- “Awake! the midnight moon is bright: Awake! the moments wing their flight; Haste! or they speed in vain!”---- O call of Love! thy potent spell O’er that weak heart prevails too well; The “still small voice” is heard no more That pleaded duty’s cause before, And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone, And pride forgot, and reason flown! Her cheek, whose colour came and fled, Resumes its warmest, brightest red, Her step its quick elastic tread, Her eye its beaming smile! Through lonely court and silent hall, Flits her light shadow o’er the wall; And still that low, harmonious call Melts on her ear the while! Though love’s quick ear alone could tell The words its accents faintly swell:-- “Awake! while yet the lingering night And stars and seas befriend our flight: Oh! haste, while all is well!”---- The halls, the courts, the gates, are past, She gains the moonlit beach at last. Who waits to guide her trembling feet? Who flies the fugitive to greet? He, to her youthful heart endear’d By all it e’er had hoped and fear’d, Twined with each wish, with every thought Each day-dream fancy e’er had wrought, Whose tints portray with flattering skill What brighter worlds alone fulfil! --Alas! that aught so fair should fly Thy blighting wand, Reality!

A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore, A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore-- Disguise that vainly strove to hide Bearing and glance of martial pride; For he in many a battle-scene, On many a rampart breach had been; Had sternly smiled at danger nigh, Had seen the valiant bleed and die, And proudly rear’d on hostile tower, Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower, Britannia’s banner high! And though some ancient feud had taught His Bertha’s sire to loathe his name, More noble warrior never fought For glory’s prize or England’s fame. And well his dark, commanding eye, And form and step of stately grace, Accorded with achievements high, Soul of emprise and chivalry, Bright name, and generous race! His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun, Tells a proud tale of glory won, Of vigil, march, and combat rude, Valour, and toil, and fortitude! E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threw Warm o’er that cheek their vivid hue, His gallant soul, his stripling form, Had braved the battle’s rudest storm; When England’s conquering archers stood, And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood, When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield, And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field, And France around her king in vain Had marshall’d valour’s noblest train-- In that dread strife his lightning eye Had flash’d with transport keen and high, And midst the battle’s wildest tide, Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride.

Alike that fearless heart could brave Death on the war-field or the wave; Alike in tournament or fight, That ardent spirit found delight! Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar, Bright o’er his soul a vision came, Rising like some benignant star, On stormy seas or plains of war, To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame, The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name! And midst the wildest rage of fight, And in the deepest calm of night, To her his thoughts would wing their flight With fond devotion warm; Oft would those glowing thoughts portray Some home, from tumults far away, Graced with that angel form! And now his spirit fondly deems Fulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams!

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow, In minstrel garb attends the chief? The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow Reveals a shade of grief. Sorrow and time have touch’d his face With mournful yet majestic grace, Soft as the melancholy smile Of sunset on some ruin’d pile! --It is the bard, whose song had power To lure the maiden from her tower-- The bard, whose wild inspiring lays, E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days, First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast, The flame that will not be represt, The pulse that throbs for praise! Those lays had banish’d from his eye The bright soft tears of infancy, Had soothed the boy to calm repose, Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes; And when the light of thought awoke, When first young reason’s day-spring broke, More powerful still, they bade arise His spirit’s burning energies! Then the bright dream of glory warm’d, Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d, The legends of each martial line, The battle-tales of Palestine: And oft, since then, _his_ deeds had proved Themes of the lofty lays he loved! Now, at triumphant love’s command, Since Osbert leaves his native land, Forsaking glory’s high career For her than glory far more dear; Since hope’s gay dream and meteor ray To distant regions point his way, That there Affection’s hands may dress A fairy bower for happiness; That fond devoted bard, though now Time’s wintery garland wreathes his brow, Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye, And fled his spirit’s buoyancy, And strength and enterprise are past, Still follows constant to the last! Though his sole wish was but to die Midst the calm scenes of days gone by, And all that hallows and endears The memory of departed years-- Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined To those loved scenes his pensive mind; Ah! what can tear the links apart That bind his chieftain to his heart? What smile but _his_ with joy can light The eye obscured by age’s night? Last of a loved and honour’d line, Last tie to earth in life’s decline, Till death its lingering spark shall dim, That faithful eye must gaze on him!

Silent and swift, with footstep light, Haste on those fugitives of night. They reach the boat--the rapid oar Soon wafts them from the wooded shore: The bark is gain’d! A gallant few, Vassals of Osbert, form its crew; The pennant, in the moonlight beam, With soft suffusion glows; From the white sail a silvery gleam Falls on the wave’s repose; Long shadows undulating play, From mast and streamer, o’er the bay; But still so hush’d the summer air, They tremble, midst that scene so fair, Lest morn’s first beam behold them there. --Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night! From river wave, or mountain height, Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, By haunted spring in forest bowers; Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, In amber grot, where mermaids dwell, And cavern’d gems their lustre throw O’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow? Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, In solitary splendour blaze, And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear, Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere? What grove of that mysterious world Holds thy light wing in slumber furl’d? Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove: Awake! to guide the bark of love! Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon Shall fade the bright propitious moon; Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, E’en now--but lo! the rustling sail Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale! The bark glides on--their fears are o’er; Recedes the bold romantic shore, Its features mingling fast. Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eye May still each lovely scene descry Of years for ever past! There wave the woods, beneath whose shade With bounding step thy childhood play’d, Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns, Free as their native birds and fawns; Listening the sylvan sounds, that float On each low breeze, midst dells remote-- The ringdove’s deep melodious moan, The rustling deer in thickets lone; The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh, The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony. Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, There thy own mountains darkly tower! Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude But thou hast loved its solitude! No path so wild but thou hast known, And traced its rugged course alone! The earliest wreath that bound thy hair Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there. There in the day-spring of thy years, Undimm’d by passions or by tears, Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye Wander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky, While the wild breeze that round thee blew, Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue. Pure as the skies that o’er thy head Their clear and cloudless azure spread, Pure as that gale whose light wing drew Its freshness from the mountain dew, Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high, A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy! Such days were thine! ere love had drawn A cloud o’er that celestial dawn! As the clear dews in morning’s beam With soft reflected colouring stream, Catch every tint of eastern gem To form the rose’s diadem, But vanish when the noontide hour Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower-- Thus in thy soul each calm delight, Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright, Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire, Or linger’d only to expire! Spring on thy native hills again Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise, And call forth, in each grassy glen, Her brightest emerald dyes! There shall the lonely mountain rose, Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose; Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream Shall sparkle in the summer beam; The birch, o’er precipice and cave, Its feathery foliage still shall wave, The ash midst rugged clefts unveil Its coral clusters to the gale, And autumn shed a warmer bloom O’er the rich heath and glowing broom. But thy light footstep there no more Each path, each dingle shall explore. In vain may smile each green recess, --Who now shall pierce its loneliness? The stream through shadowy glens may stray, --Who now shall trace its glistening way? In solitude, in silence deep, Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep, No lute’s wild swell again shall rise To wake her mystic melodies. All soft may blow the mountain air, --It will not wave thy graceful hair! The mountain rose may bloom and die, --It will not meet thy smiling eye! But like those scenes of vanish’d days, Shall others ne’er delight; Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze, Yet seem not half so bright! O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high; Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to view That home of infancy! Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power, Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour, But pause and linger on the deck, Till of those towers no trace, no speck, Is gleaming o’er the main; For when the mist of morn shall rise, Blending the sea, the shore, the skies, That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes, Shall bless them ne’er again!

There the dark tales and songs of yore First with strange transport thrill’d thy soul, E’en while their fearful mystic lore From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole. There, while thy father’s raptured ear Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, And in his eye the trembling tear Reveal’d his spirit’s trance; How oft, those echoing halls along, Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song-- Tradition wild of other days, Or troubadour’s heroic lays, Or legend of romance! Oh! many an hour has there been thine, That memory’s pencil oft shall dress In softer shades, and tints that shine In mellow’d loveliness! While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret, The sunshine of thine early years, Scarce deem’d so radiant--till it set! The cloudless peace, unprized till gone, The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known!

On rock and turret, wood and hill, The fading moonbeams linger still, Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower, At evening’s last and sweetest hour, While varying still, the western skies Flush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes, Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d, Each richer, lovelier, than the last. How oft, while gazing on the deep, That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep, As if its wave, so still, so fair, More frowning mien might never wear, The twilight calm of mental rest Would steal in silence o’er thy breast, And wake that dear and balmy sigh That softly breathes the spirit’s harmony! --Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be given Of joy on earth--so near allied to heaven!

Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye? Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh? Is there a grief his voice, his smile, His words, are fruitless to beguile? --Oh! bitter to the youthful heart, That scarce a pang, a care has known, The hour when first from scenes we part, Where life’s bright spring has flown! Forsaking, o’er the world to roam, That little shrine of peace--our home! E’en if delighted fancy throw O’er that cold world, her brightest glow, Painting its untried paths with flowers, That will not live in earthly bowers, (Too frail, too exquisite, to bear One breath of life’s ungenial air;) E’en if such dreams of hope arise As heaven alone can realise, Cold were the breast that would not heave One sigh, the home of youth to leave; Stern were the heart that would not swell To breathe life’s saddest word--farewell! Though earth has many a deeper woe, Though tears more bitter far must flow, That hour, whate’er our future lot, That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot!

Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart, The thought, that bade the tear-drop start; And Osbert by her side Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell Nature’s fond struggle told too well; And days of future bliss portray’d, And love’s own eloquence essay’d, To soothe his plighted bride! Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells, In that sweet land to which they fly; The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells Of blooming Italy. For he had roved a pilgrim there, And gazed on many a spot so fair It seem’d like some enchanted grove, Where only peace, and joy, and love, Those exiles of the world, might rove, And breathe its heavenly air; And, all unmix’d with ruder tone, Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone! Far from the frown of stern control, That vainly would subdue the soul, There shall their long-affianced hands Be join’d in consecrated bands. And in some rich, romantic vale, Circled with heights of Alpine snow, Where citron-woods enrich the gale, And scented shrubs their balm exhale, And flowering myrtles blow; And midst the mulberry boughs on high Weaves the wild vine her tapestry; On some bright streamlet’s emerald side, Where cedars wave in graceful pride, Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise, A shelter’d bower of paradise! Thus would the lover soothe to rest With tales of hope her anxious breast; Nor vain that dear enchanting lore Her soul’s bright visions to restore, And bid gay phantoms of delight Float in soft colouring o’er her sight. ----O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon, Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon, How oft thy spirit’s buoyant power Will triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hour Prevailing o’er regret! As rears its head th’ elastic flower Though the dark tempest’s recent shower Hang on its petals yet!

Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smile The aged bard to joy beguile; Those silent years that steal away The cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray, Win from the mind a nobler prize, E’en all its buoyant energies! For him the April days are past, When grief was but a fleeting cloud; No transient shade will sorrow cast, When age the spirit’s might has bow’d! And, as he sees the land grow dim, That native land now lost to him, Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands, And long in speechless grief he stands: So desolately calm his air, He seems an image wrought to bear The stamp of deep, though hush’d despair. Motion and life no sign bespeaks, Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks, Just waves his silvery hair! Nought else could teach the eye to know He was no sculptured form of woe! Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood, Pale in that silent grief he stood, Till the cold moon was waning fast, And many a lovely star had died, And the gray heavens deep shadows cast Far o’er the slumbering tide; And, robed in one dark solemn hue, Arose the distant shore to view. Then, starting from his trance of woe, Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow, While thus his wild and plaintive strain Blends with the murmur of the main.

THE BARD’S FAREWELL.

“Thou setting moon! when next thy rays Are trembling on the shadowy deep, The land, now fading from thy gaze, These eyes in vain shall weep; And wander o’er the lonely sea, And fix their tearful glance on thee-- On thee! whose light so softly gleams Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.

“But midst those ancient groves, no more Shall I thy quivering lustre hail; Its plaintive strain my harp must pour To swell a foreign gale. The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke When its full tones their stillness broke, Deserted now, shall hear alone The brook’s wild voice, the wind’s mysterious moan.

“And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls, Left by your lord to slow decay, Soon shall the trophies on your walls Be mouldering fast away! There shall no choral songs resound, There shall no festal board be crown’d; But ivy wreathe the silent gate, And all be hush’d, and cold, and desolate.

“No banner from the stately tower Shall spread its blazon’d folds on high; There the wild brier and summer flower, Unmark’d, shall wave and die. Home of the mighty! thou art lone, The noonday of thy pride is gone, And, midst thy solitude profound, A step shall echo like unearthly sound!

“From thy cold hearths no festal blaze Shall fill the hall with ruddy light, Nor welcome with convivial rays Some pilgrim of the night. But there shall grass luxuriant spread, As o’er the dwellings of the dead; And the deep swell of every blast Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.

“And I--my joy of life is fled, My spirit’s power, my bosom’s glow; The raven locks that graced my head, Wave in a wreath of snow! And where the star of youth arose I deem’d life’s lingering ray should close, And those loved trees my tomb o’ershade, Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play’d.

“Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth Shall rise, forsaken and forgot; And thou, sweet land that gavest me birth! A grave must yield me not. Yet, haply, he for whom I leave Thy shores, in life’s dark winter eve, When cold the hand, and closed the lays, And mute the voice he loved to praise, O’er the hush’d harp one tear may shed, And one frail garland o’er the minstrel’s bed!”

BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST.

Twas night in Babylon: yet many a beam, Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high, Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates’ stream With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, Whose azure knows no cloud: each whisper’d sigh Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers, Bore deepening tones of joy and melody, O’er an illumined wilderness of flowers; And the glad city’s voice went up from all her towers.

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall, Where midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band, High at the stately midnight festival, Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury’s hand Had shower’d around all treasures that expand Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore --But mortal pride look’d on, and still demanded more.

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain! The lord of nations spoke,--and forth were brought The spoils of Salem’s devastated fane. Thrice-holy vessels!--pure from earthly stain, And set apart, and sanctified to Him Who deign’d within the oracle to reign, Reveal’d yet shadow’d; making noonday dim, To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.

They came, and louder peal’d the voice of song, And pride flash’d brighter from the kindling eye; And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng, In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy The Rock of Zion! Fill the nectar high, High in the cups of consecrated gold! And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, And bid the censers of the temple hold Offerings to Babel’s gods, the mighty ones of old!

Peace!--is it but a phantom of the brain, Thus shadow’d forth, the senses to appall, Yon fearful vision? Who shall gaze again To search its cause? Along the illumined wall, Startling yet riveting the eyes of all, Darkly it moves,--a hand, a human hand, O’er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall, In silence tracing, as a mystic wand, Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant land!

There are pale cheeks around the regal board, And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low, And fitful starts!--the wine, in triumph pour’d, Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow, The waving censer drops to earth--and lo! The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth, Trembles before a shadow! Say not so! --The child of dust, with guilt’s foreboding sight, Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!

“But haste ye!--bring Chaldea’s gifted seers, The men of prescience! Haply to _their_ eyes, Which track the future through the rolling spheres, Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.” They come--the readers of the midnight skies, They that gave voice to visions--but in vain! Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies, It hath no language midst the starry train, Earth has no gifted tongue heaven’s mysteries to explain.

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, And other inspiration!--one of those Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, And sat and wept, where Babel’s river flows. His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose Of his pure features half o’erawed the mind; Telling of inward mysteries--joys and woes In lone recesses of the soul enshrined; Depths of a being seal’d and sever’d from mankind.

Yes!--what was earth to him, whose spirit pass’d Time’s utmost bounds? on whose unshrinking sight Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast Their full resplendence? Majesty and might Were in his dreams; for him the veil of light Shrouding heaven’s inmost sanctuary and throne, The curtain of th’ unutterably bright, Was raised!--to him, in fearful splendour shown, Ancient of Days! e’en Thou madest thy dread presence known.

He spoke--the shadows of the things to come Pass’d o’er his soul:--“O King, elate in pride! God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom-- The one, the living God, by thee defied! He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried, Hath weigh’d, and found thee wanting. ’Tis decreed The conqueror’s hands thy kingdom shall divide, The stranger to thy throne of power succeed! Thy days are full: they come,--the Persian and the Mede!”

There fell a moment’s thrilling silence round-- A breathless pause!--the hush of hearts that beat, And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound, A gathering-cry, a tread of hurrying feet? --’Twas but some echo in the crowded street, Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song, The measured dance to music wildly sweet, That speeds the stars their joyous course along-- Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng!

Peace yet again! Hark! steps in tumult flying, Steeds rushing on, as o’er a battle-field! The shouts of hosts exulting or defying, The press of multitudes that strive or yield! And the loud startling clash of spear and shield, Sudden as earthquake’s burst; and, blent with these, The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal’d In their full mirth!--all deepening on the breeze, As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas!

And nearer yet the trumpet’s blast is swelling, Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry; And, lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling, Death--bursting on the halls of revelry! Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die, The sword hath raged through joy’s devoted train; Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane; Empire is lost and won--Belshazzar with the slain.[204]

[Belshazzar’s Feast had previously been published in the _Collection of Poems from Living Authors_, edited for a benevolent purpose by Mrs Joanna Baillie.--_Memoir_, p. 68.

“Miss Baillie’s volume contained several poems by Mrs Hemans; some _jeux d’esprit_, by the late Miss Catherine Fanshawe, a woman of rare wit and genius, in whose society Scott greatly delighted; and, _inter alia_, Mr William Howison’s early ballad of Polydore, which had been originally published under Scott’s auspices, in the Edinburgh Register for 1810.”--Lockhart’s _Life of Scott_, vol. v. p. 287.

It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter’s own “Macduff’s Cross,” and Southey’s lively and eccentric nursery rhymes on the “Cataract of Lodoar,” first made their appearance in the collection referred to.]

[204] As originally written, the following additional stanzas (afterwards omitted) concluded this poem:--

Fallen is the golden city! In the dust, Spoil’d of her crown, dismantled of her state, She that hath made the strength of towers her trust Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate! She that beheld the nations at her gate, Thronging in homage, shall be call’d no more Lady of kingdoms! Who shall mourn her fate? Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o’er-- What widow’d land shall now her widowhood deplore?

Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned On many waters!--thou, whose augurs read The language of the planets, and disown’d The mighty Name it blazons!--veil thy head, Daughter of Babylon! The sword is red From thy destroyer’s harvest, and the yoke Is on thee, O most proud!--for thou hast said, “I am, and none beside!” Th’ Eternal spoke; Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke!

But go thou forth, O Israel!--wake! rejoice! Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day! Renew the sound of harps, th’ exulting voice, The mirth of timbrels!--loose the chain, and say God hath redeem’d his people!--from decay The silent and the trampled shall arise! Awake!--put on thy beautiful array, O long-forsaken Zion!--to the skies Send up on every wind thy choral melodies!

And lift thy head!--Behold thy sons returning Redeem’d from exile, ransom’d from the chain, Light hath revisited the house of mourning: She that on Judah’s mountains wept in vain, Because her children were not, dwells again Girt with the lovely! Through thy streets once more, City of God! shall pass the bridal train, And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore.

THE LAST CONSTANTINE.

... “Thou strivest nobly, When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk; And o’er thy fall, if it be so decreed, Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears ... ... Fame I look not for; But to sustain, in Heaven’s all-seeing eye, Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, With graceful virtue and becoming pride, The dignity and honour of a man, Thus station’d as I am, I will do all That man may do.” Miss Baillie’s “Constantine Palæologus.”