The Poems of Felicia Hemans

[_Exeunt._ Scene IV.--_A Hall within the Palace._ Sebastian, Sylveira. _Sylv._ Whence art thou, stranger?--what wouldst thou with me? There is a fiery wildness in thy mien Startling and almost fearful. _Seb._ From the stern, And vast, and desolate wilderness, whose lord Is the fierce lion, and whose gentlest wind Breathes of the tomb, and whose dark children make The bow and spear their law, men bear not back That smilingness of aspect, wont to mask The secrets of their spirits midst the stir Of courts and cities. I have look’d on scenes Boundless, and strange, and terrible; I have known Sufferings which are not in the shadowy scope Of wild imagination; and these things Have stamp’d me with their impress. Man of peace, Thou look’st on one familiar with th’ extremes Of grandeur and of misery. _Sylv._ Stranger, speak Thy name and purpose briefly, for the time Ill suits these mysteries. I must hence; to-night I feast the lords of Spain. _Seb._ Is that a task For King Sebastian’s friend? _Sylv._ Sebastian’s friend! That name hath lost its meaning. Will the dead Rise from their silent dwellings, to upbraid The living for their mirth? The grave sets bounds Unto all human friendship. _Seb._ On the plain Of Alcazar full many a stately flower, The pride and crown of some high house, was laid Low in the dust of Afric; but of these Sebastian was not one. _Sylv._ I am not skill’d To deal with men of mystery. Take, then, off The strange dark scrutiny of thine eye from mine What mean’st thou?--Speak! _Seb._ Sebastian died not there.---- I read no joy in that cold doubting mien. Is not thy name Sylveira? _Sylv._ Ay. _Seb._ Why, then, Be glad! I tell thee that Sebastian lives! Think thou on this--he lives! Should he return-- For he may yet return--and find the friend In whom he trusted with such perfect trust As should be heaven’s alone--mark’st thou my words?-- Should he then find this man, not girt and arm’d, And watching o’er the heritage of his lord, But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith, Holding luxurious revels with his foes, How would thou meet his glance? _Sylv._ As I do thine, Keen though it be, and proud. _Seb._ Why, thou dost quail Before it! even as if the burning eye Of the broad sun pursued thy shrinking soul Through all its depths. _Sylv._ Away! he died not there! He _should_ have died there, with the chivalry And strength and honour of his kingdom, lost By his impetuous rashness. _Seb._ This from _thee_? Who hath given power to falsehood, that one gaze At its unmask’d and withering mien, should blight High souls at once? I wake. And this from thee? There are, whose eyes discern the secret springs Which lie beneath the desert, and the gold And gems within earth’s caverns, far below The everlasting hills: but who hath dared To dream that heaven’s most awful attribute Invested his mortality, and to boast That through its inmost folds his glance could read One heart, one human heart? Why, then, to love And trust is but to lend a traitor arms Of keenest temper and unerring aim, Wherewith to pierce our souls. But thou, beware! Sebastian lives! _Sylv._ If it be so, and thou Art of his followers still, then bid him seek Far in the wilds, which gave one sepulchre To his proud hosts, a kingdom and a home, For none is left him here. _Seb._ This is to live An age of wisdom in an hour! The man Whose empire, as in scorn, o’erpass’d the bounds E’en of the infinite deep; whose Orient realms Lay bright beneath the morning, while the clouds Were brooding in their sunset mantle still, O’er his majestic regions of the West; This heir of far dominion shall return, And, in the very city of his birth, Shall find no home! Ay, I _will_ tell him this, And he will answer that the tale is false, False as a traitor’s hollow words of love; And that the stately dwelling, in whose halls We commune now--a friend’s, a monarch’s gift, Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira, Should yield him still a welcome. _Sylv._ Fare thee well! I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words Are full of danger, and of snares, perchance Laid by some treacherous foe. But all in vain. I mock thy wiles to scorn. _Seb._ Ha! ha! The snake Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning, Deeming it wisdom. Nay, thou go’st not thus. My heart is bursting, and I _will_ be heard. What! know’st thou not my spirit was born to hold Dominion over thine? Thou shalt not cast Those bonds thus lightly from thee. Stand thou there, And tremble in the presence of thy lord! _Sylv._ This is all madness. _Seb._ Madness! no, I say-- ’Tis Reason starting from her sleep, to feel, And see, and know, in all their cold distinctness, Things which come o’er her, as a sense of pain O’ th’ sudden wakes the dreamer. Stay thee yet; Be still. Thou’rt used to smile and to obey; Ay, and to weep. I have seen thy tears flow fast, As from the fulness of a heart o’ercharged With loyal love. Oh! never, never more Let tears or smiles be trusted! When thy king Went forth on his disastrous enterprise, Upon thy bed of sickness thou wast laid, And he stood o’er thee with the look of one Who leaves a dying brother, and his eyes Were fill’d with tears like thine. No! _not_ like thine: _His_ bosom knew no falsehood, and he deem’d Thine clear and stainless as a warrior’s shield, Wherein high deeds and noble forms alone Are brightly imaged forth. _Sylv._ What now avail These recollections? _Seb._ What! I have seen thee shrink, As a murderer from the eye of light, before me: I have earn’d (how dearly and how bitterly It matters not, but I _have_ earn’d at last) Deep knowledge, fearful wisdom. Now, begone! Hence to thy guests, and fear not, though arraign’d E’en of Sebastian’s friendship. Make his scorn (For he _will_ scorn thee, as a crouching slave By all high hearts is scorn’d) thy right, thy charter Unto vile safety. Let the secret voice, Whose low upbraidings will not sleep within thee, Be as a sign, a token of thy claim To all such guerdons as are shower’d on traitors, When noble men are crush’d. And fear thou not: ’Tis but the kingly cedar which the storm Hurls from his mountain throne--th’ ignoble shrub, Grovelling beneath, may live. _Sylv._ It is _thy_ part To tremble for thy life. _Seb._ They that have look’d Upon a heart like thine, should know too well The worth of life to tremble. Such things make Brave men, and reckless. Ay, and they whom fate Would trample should be thus. It is enough-- Thou may’st depart. _Sylv._ And thou, if thou dost prize Thy safety, speed thee hence. [_Exit_ Sylveira. _Seb._ (_alone._) And this is he Who was as mine own soul: whose image rose, Shadowing my dreams of glory with the thought That on the sick man’s weary couch he lay, Pining to share my battles! CHORUS. Ye winds that sweep The conquer’d billows of the western deep, Or wander where the morn Midst the resplendent Indian heavens is born, Waft o’er bright isles and glorious worlds the fame Of the crown’d Spaniard’s name: Till in each glowing zone Its might the nations own, And bow to him the vassal knee Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea. _Seb._ Away--away! this is no place for him Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now A word of desolation. [_Exit._ THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. A DRAMATIC POEM.[270] “Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazanna Del valor que en los siglos venideros Tendrán los Hijos de la fuerte Espanna, Hijos de tal padres herederos. Hallò sola en Numancia todo quanto Debe con justo titulo cantarse Y lo que puede dar materia al canto.” Cervantes, _Numancia_. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Alvar Gonzalez, _Governor of Valencia_. Alphonso, Carlos, _his Sons_. Hernandez, _a Priest_. Abdullah, _a Moorish Prince, Chief of the Army besieging Valencia_. Garcias, _a Spanish Knight_. Elmina, _Wife to Gonzalez_. Ximena, _her Daughter_. Theresa, _an attendant_. _Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &c._ [270] _Advertisement by the Author._--The history of Spain records two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which was defended, in 1294, for Sancho King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother Don Juan, by Guzman surnamed the Good.[271] The second is related of Alonso Lopez de Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara.[272] Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted “to describe high passions and high actions,” by connecting a religious feeling with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been proved “faithful unto death,” and by surrounding her ideal _dramatis personæ_ with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon Valencia del Cid as the scene to give them “A local habitation and a name.” [271] See Quintana’s “Vidas de Espanoles Celebres,” p. 53. [272] See the Preface to Southey’s “Chronicle of the Cid.” Scene I.--_Room in a Palace of Valencia._--Ximena _singing to a lute_. BALLAD. “Thou hast not been with a festal throng At the pouring of the wine; Men bear not from the hall of song A mien so dark as thine! There’s blood upon thy shield, There’s dust upon thy plume, Thou hast brought from some disastrous field That brow of wrath and gloom!” “And is there blood upon my shield? Maiden, it well may be! We have sent the streams from our battle-field All darken’d to the sea! We have given the founts a stain, Midst their woods of ancient pine; And the ground is wet--but not with rain, Deep dyed--but not with wine! “The ground is wet--but not with rain-- We have been in war-array, And the noblest blood of Christian Spain Hath bathed her soil to-day. I have seen the strong man die, And the stripling meet his fate, Where the mountain-winds go sounding by In the Roncesvalles’ Strait. “In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait There are helms and lances cleft; And they that moved at morn elate On a bed of heath are left! There’s many a fair young face Which the war-steed hath gone o’er; At many a board there is kept a place For those that come no more!”