The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Of night, o’ershadowing space
As with the wings of death!--in all his power
Vesuvius woke, and hurl’d the burning shower,
And who could tell the buried city’s place?
Such things have been of yore,
In the gay regions where the citrons blow,
And purple summers all their sleepy glow
On the grape-clusters pour;
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving,
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving,
As with a flow of light, their southern shore.
Turn we to other climes!--
Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread,
Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead;[264]
And ancient battle-rhymes
Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed
And lofty songs of Britain’s elder time;--
But ere the giant-fane
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even,
Hush’d were the bards, and in the face of heaven,
O’er that old burial-plain,
Flash’d the keen Saxon dagger!--blood was streaming
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming,
And Britain’s hearths were heap’d that night in vain--
For they return’d no more!
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart,
In that fierce banquet’s mirth to bear their part:
And on the rushy floor,
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls,
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls;
But not for them--they slept--their feast was o’er!
Fear ye the festal hour!
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o’erflows!
Tame down the swelling heart! The bridal rose,
And the rich myrtle’s flower,
Have veil’d the sword! Red wines have sparkled fast
From venom’d goblets, and soft breezes pass’d
With fatal perfume through the revel’s bower.
Twine the young glowing wreath!
But pour not all your spirit in the song,
Which through the sky’s deep azure floats along
Like summer’s quickening breath!
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth:
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth,
So darkly press’d and girdled in by death!
[“‘The Festal Hour’ certainly appears to us to be one of the noblest,
regular, and classical odes in the English language--happy in the
general idea, and rich in imagery and illustration.”--Dr Morehead _in
Constable’s Magazine_, _Sept. 1823_.]
[260] The sword of Harmodius.
[261] Paulus Æmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, and
another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Macedon, when
Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains.
[262] See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of
the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night
before Antony’s death.
[263] Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants
were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes which
overwhelmed the city descended.
[264] Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the
memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others mentioned as
a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.
SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.
[“In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of
Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this prince
repeatedly declared he ‘would trample the audacious rustics under
his feet;’ and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the
purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death.
“The 15th October 1315 dawned. The sun darted its first rays on the
shields and armour of the advancing host; and this being the first
army ever known to have attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the
Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang
led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space
between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on
the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down
heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates on
the mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed
down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column.
With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and
dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the
defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured
the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; many leaped
into the lake; all were startled; and at last the whole column gave
way, and fell suddenly back on the infantry; and these last, as the
nature of the country did not allow them to open their files, were run
over by the fugitives, and many of them trampled to death. A general
rout ensued, and Duke Leopold was with much difficulty rescued by a
peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the times
saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed.”--Planta’s
_History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.]
The wine-month[265] shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer’s clime,
Than the vintage music, rung--
A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
--’Twas the tread of steel-girt men.
And a trumpet, pealing wild and far,
Midst the ancient rocks was blown,
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war
With a thousand of their own.
And through the forest-glooms
Flash’d helmets to the day;
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes,
Like the larch-boughs in their play.
In Hasli’s[266] wilds there was gleaming steel
As the host of the Austrian pass’d;
And the Schreckhorn’s[267] rocks, with a savage peal,
Made mirth of his clarion’s blast.
Up midst the Righi snows
The stormy march was heard,
With the charger’s tramp, whence fire-sparks rose,
And the leader’s gathering-word.
But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon’d streamers and lances tall,
Moved onwards in princely state.
They came with heavy chains
For the race despised so long--
But amidst his Alp-domains,
The herdsman’s arm is strong!
The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they enter’d the rock-defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter’s horn
Their bugles rang the while.
But on the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood,
There was stillness as of night,
When storms at distance brood.
There was stillness as of deep, dead night,
And a pause--but not of fear,
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.
On wound those columns bright
Between the lake and wood,
But they look’d not to the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.
The pass was fill’d with their serried power,
All helm’d and mail-array’d,
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower
In the rustling forest-shade.
There were prince and crested knight,
Hemm’d in by cliff and flood,
When a shout arose from the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.
And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among,
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown--
Oh! the herdsman’s arm is strong!--
They came like lauwine[268] hurl’d
From Alp to Alp in play,
When the echoes shout through the snowy world,
And the pines are borne away.
The fir-woods crash’d on the mountain-side,
And the Switzers rush’d from high,
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry:
Like hunters of the deer,
They storm’d the narrow dell;
And first in the shock, with Uri’s spear,
Was the arm of William Tell.[269]
There was tumult in the crowded strait,
And a cry of wild dismay;
And many a warrior met his fate
From a peasant’s hand that day!
And the Empire’s banner then
From its place of waving free,
Went down before the shepherd-men,
The men of the Forest-Sea.
With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield,
And the war-horse dash’d to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field!
The field--but not of sheaves--
Proud crests and pennons lay,
Strewn o’er it thick as the birch-wood leaves
In the autumn tempest’s way.
Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view’d
When the Austrian turn’d to fly,
And the brave, in the trampling multitude,
Had a fearful death to die!
And the leader of the war
At eve unhelm’d was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.
But the sons of the land which the freeman tills
Went back from the battle-toil,
To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills,
All burden’d with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
When children sprang to greet their sires
From the wild Morgarten fight
[265] _Wine-month_, the German name for October.
[266] Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne.
[267] Schreckhorn, the _peak of terror_, a mountain in the canton of
Berne.
[268] _Lauwine_, the Swiss name for the avalanche.
[269] William Tell’s name is particularly mentioned amongst the
confederates at Morgarten.
ODE ON THE DEFEAT OF KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL, AND HIS ARMY, IN
AFRICA.
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA.
[Ferdinand de Herrera, surnamed the Divine, was a Spanish poet
who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is still considered by
the Castilians as one of their classic writers. He aimed at the
introduction of a new style into Spanish poetry, and his lyrics are
distinguished by the sustained majesty of their language, the frequent
recurrence of expressions and images derived apparently from a fervent
study of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone of
national pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by the
nature of the subjects to which some of these productions are devoted.
This last characteristic is blended with a deep and enthusiastic
feeling of religion, which rather exalts than tempers the haughty
confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his country. Spain
is to him what Judea was to the bards who sang beneath the shadow of
her palm-trees--the chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed
from all others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, are
peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of Heaven upon the infidel.
This triumphant conviction is powerfully expressed in his magnificent
Ode on the Battle of Lepanto.
The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of the Spanish
reader, by another of Herrera’s lyric compositions, will, it is
feared, be very inadequately conveyed through the medium of the
following translation.]
“Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido,” etc.
A voice of woe, a murmur of lament,
A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire;
Let such record the day, the day of wail
For Lusitania’s bitter chastening sent!
She who hath seen her power, her fame expire,
And mourns them in the dust, discrown’d and pale.
And let the awful tale
With grief and horror every realm o’ershade,