The Poems of Felicia Hemans
From Afric’s burning main
To the far sea, in other hues array’d,
And the red limits of the Orient’s reign,
Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold
Christ’s glorious banner to the winds unfold.
Alas! for those that in embattled power,
And vain array of chariots and of horse,
O desert Libya! sought thy fatal coast!
And trusting not in Him, the eternal source
Of might and glory, but in earthly force,
Making the strength of multitudes their boast,
A flush’d and crested host,
Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trode
Their path of pride, as o’er a conquer’d land
Given for the spoil; nor raised their eyes to God:
And Israel’s Holy One withdrew his hand,
Their sole support;--and heavily and prone
They fell--the car, the steed, the rider, all o’erthrown!
It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe,
Which to deep solitude and tears consign’d
The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth.
A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow
Announced the morn--it seem’d as nature pined,
And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam’s birth;
While, startling the pale earth,
Bursting upon the mighty and the proud
With visitation dread,
Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow’d,
And raised barbarian nations o’er their head,
The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold,
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontroll’d.
Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword
Of the strong infidel’s ignoble hand,
Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown
Of thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde,
Not with thy life content, O ruin’d land!
Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renown
Defaced and trampled down;
And scatter’d, rushing as a torrent-flood,
Thy pomp of arms and banners;--till the sands
Became a lake of blood--thy noblest blood!--
The plain a mountain of thy slaughter’d bands.
Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed;
On thy devoted sons--amaze, and shame, and dread.
Are _these_ the conquerors, _these_ the lords of fight,
The warrior men, the invincible, the famed,
Who shook the earth with terror and dismay,
Whose spoils were empires?--They that in their might
The haughty strength of savage nations tamed,
And gave the spacious Orient realms of day
To desolation’s sway,
Making the cities of imperial name
E’en as the desert-place?
Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race
In one brief hour? Is this their valour’s doom,
On distant shores to fall, and find not even a tomb?
Once were they, in their splendour and their pride,
As an imperial cedar on the brow
Of the great Lebanon! It rose, array’d
In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide
Majestic branches, leaving far below
All children of the forest. To its shade
The waters tribute paid,
Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky,
And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair
Beneath; and nations by its canopy
Were shadow’d o’er. Supreme it stood, and ne’er
Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair.
But all elated, on its verdant stem,
Confiding solely in its regal height,
It soar’d presumptuous, as for empire born;
And God for this removed its diadem,
And cast it from its regions of delight,
Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn,
By the deep roots uptorn!
And lo! encumbering the lone hills it lay,
Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state;
While, pale with fear, men hurried far away,
Who in its ample shade had found so late
Their bower of rest; and nature’s savage race
Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place.
But thou, base Libya! thou whose arid sand
Hath been a kingdom’s deathbed, where one fate
Closed her bright life and her majestic fame,--
Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand
Hath fall’n the victory, be not thou elate!
Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame,
Unworthy of a name!
Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance,
Aroused to vengeance by a nation’s cry,
Pierced by his searching lance,
Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony,
And thine affrighted streams to ocean’s flood
An ample tribute bear of Afric’s Paynim blood.
SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL.
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Sebastian.
Gonzalez, _his friend_.
Zamor, _a young Arab_.
Sylveira.
Scene I. _The sea-shore near Lisbon._
Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor.
_Seb._ With what young life and fragrance in its breath
My native air salutes me! From the groves
of citron, and the mountains of the vine,
And thy majestic tide thus foaming on
In power and freedom o’er its golden sands,
Fair stream, my Tajo! youth, with all its glow
And pride of feeling, through my soul and frame
Again seems rushing, as these noble waves
Past their bright shores flow joyously. Sweet land,
My own, my fathers’ land, of sunny skies
And orange bowers!--Oh! is it not a dream
That thus I tread thy soil? Or do I wake
From a dark dream but now! Gonzalez, say,
Doth it not bring the flush of early life
Back on th’ awakening spirit, thus to gaze
On the far-sweeping river, and the shades
Which, in their undulating motion, speak
Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born,
After the fiery skies and dark-red sands
Of the lone desert? Time and toil must needs
Have changed our mien; but this, our blessèd land,
Hath gain’d but richer beauty since we bade
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus?
Thy brow is clouded.
_Gon._ To mine eye the scene
Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness,
A hue of desolation; and the calm,
The solitude and silence which pervade
Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less
To peace than sadness! We have proudly stood
Even on this shore, beside the Atlantic wave,
When it hath look’d not thus.
_Seb._ Ay, now thy soul
Is in the past! Oh no! it look’d not thus
When the morn smiled upon our thousand sails,
And the winds blew for Afric. How that hour,
With all its hues of glory, seems to burst
Again upon my vision! I behold
The stately barks, the arming, the array,
The crests, the banners of my chivalry,
Sway’d by the sea-breeze till their motion show’d
Like joyous life! How the proud billows foam’d!
And the oars flash’d like lightnings of the deep,
And the tall spears went glancing to the sun,
And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide
The valiant unto fame! Ay, the blue heaven
Seem’d for that noble scene a canopy
Scarce too majestic, while it rang afar
To peals of warlike sound! My gallant bands!
Where are you now?
_Gon._ Bid the wide desert tell
Where sleep its dead! To mightier hosts than them
Hath it lent graves ere now; and on its breast
Is room for nations yet!
_Seb._ It cannot be
That all have perish’d! Many a noble man,
Made captive on that war-field, may have burst
His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting hour,
Which to my soul is as the fountain’s draught
To the parch’d lip of fever, with a thought
So darkly sad!
_Gon._ Oh never, never cast
That deep remembrance from you! When once more
Your place is midst earth’s rulers, let it dwell
Around you, as the shadow of your throne,
Wherein the land may rest. My king! this hour
(Solemn as that which to the voyager’s eye,
In far and dim perspective, doth unfold
A new and boundless world) may haply be
The last in which the courage and the power
Of truth’s high voice may reach you. Who may stand
As man to man, as friend to friend, before
Th’ ancestral throne of monarchs? Or perchance
Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance,
Henceforth may wait us here! But howsoe’er
This be, the lessons now from sufferings past
Befit all time, all change. Oh! by the blood,
The free, the generous blood of Portugal,
Shed on the sands of Afric--by the names
Which, with their centuries of high renown,
There died, extinct for ever--let not those
Who stood in hope and glory at our side
Here, on this very sea-beach, whence they pass’d
To fall, and leave no trophy--let them not
Be soon, be e’er forgotten! for their fate
Bears a deep warning in its awfulness,
Whence power might well learn wisdom!
_Seb._ Thinkst thou, then,
That years of sufferance and captivity,
Such as have bow’d down eagle hearts ere now,
And made high energies their spoil, have pass’d
So lightly o’er my spirit? It is not thus!
The things thou wouldst recall are not of those
To be forgotten! But my heart hath still
A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy,
And it is joy which whispers in the breeze
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gonzalez!
Thou’rt one to make thy fearless heart a shield
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud helms
Cleft, and strong breastplates shiver’d. Thou art one
To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude
Into the captive’s bosom, and beguile
The long slow march beneath the burning noon
With lofty patience; but for those quick bursts,
Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights
Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose wing
Wanders in chainless joy; for things like these
Thou hast no sympathies! And thou, my Zamor,
Art wrapt in thought! I welcome thee to this,
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not
A goodly heritage?
_Zam._ The land is fair;
But he, the archer of the wilderness,
Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade
His tents are scatter’d, and his camels rest;
And therefore is he sad!
_Seb._ Thou must not pine
With that sick yearning of th’ impatient heart,
Which makes the exile’s life one fever’d dream
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away,
And faces wearing the familiar hues
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known
Too much of this, and would not see another
Thus daily die. If it be so with thee,
My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark
Yet, with her white sails catching sunset’s glow,
Lies within signal-reach. If it be thus,
Then fare thee well--farewell, thou brave, and true,
And generous friend! How often is our path
Cross’d by some being whose bright spirit sheds
A passing gladness o’er it, but whose course
Leads down another current, never more
To blend with ours! Yet far within our souls,
Amidst the rushing of the busy world,
Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers yet
Around that image. And e’en so, kind Zamor!
Shalt thou be long remember’d.
_Zam._ By the fame
Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes
Tell round the desert’s watchfire, at the hour
Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars,
I will not leave thee! ’Twas in such an hour
The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay
Shrouded in slumber’s mantle, as within
The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then,
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole
Soft on the sleeper? Whose keen dart transfix’d
The monarch of the solitudes? I woke,