The Poems of Felicia Hemans
“Alas! for love, for woman’s breast,
If woe like this must be!
Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle-crest,
And a white plume waving free?
With his proud quick-flashing eye,
And his mien of knightly state?
Doth he come from where the swords flash’d high
In the Roncesvalles’ Strait?”
“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait
I saw, and mark’d him well;
For nobly on his steed he sate,
When the pride of manhood fell!
But it is not _youth_ which turns
From the field of spears again;
For the boy’s high heart too wildly burns,
Till it rests amidst the slain!”
“Thou canst not say that _he_ lies low,
The lovely and the brave:
Oh! none could look on his joyous brow,
And think upon the grave!
Dark, dark perchance the day
Hath been with valour’s fate;
But _he_ is on his homeward way
From the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”
“There is dust upon his joyous brow,
And o’er his graceful head;
And the war-horse will not wake him now,
Though it browse his greensward bed!
I have seen the stripling die,
And the strong man meet his fate
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by
In the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”
Elmina _enters._
_Elm._ Your songs are not as those of other days,
Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke
Joy’s echo from all hearts?
_Xim._ My mother, this
Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds;
And these are not the halls wherein my voice
First pour’d those gladd’ning strains.
_Elm._ Alas! thy heart
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills,
Where thy young brothers, o’er the rock and heath,
Bound in glad boyhood, e’en as torrent-streams
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt,
Thou shouldst have track’d ere now, with step as light,
Their wild-wood paths.
_Xim._ I would not but have shared
These hours of woe and peril, though the deep
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves,
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush
All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild
O’ th’ summer-forest, filling earth and heaven
With its own awful music. And ’tis well!
Should not a hero’s child be train’d to hear
The trumpet’s blast unstartled, and to look
In the fix’d face of death without dismay?
_Elm._ Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and so young
Should thus be call’d to stand i’ the tempest’s path,
And bear the token and the hue of death
On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk
From mine own lot; but thou, my child, shouldst move
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers,
And not o’er foaming billows. We are fall’n
On dark and evil days!
_Xim._ Ay, days that wake
All to their tasks!--Youth may not loiter now
In the green walks of spring; and womanhood
Is summon’d unto conflicts, heretofore
The lot of warrior-spirits. Strength is born
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts;
Not amidst joy.
_Elm._ Hast thou some secret woe
That thus thou speak’st?
_Xim._ What sorrow should be mine,
Unknown to thee?
_Elm._ Alas! the baleful air,
Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks
Through the devoted city, like a blight
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall’n,
And wrought an early withering. Thou hast cross’d
The paths of death, and minister’d to those
O’er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still,
Deep, solemn radiance; and thy brow hath caught
A wild and high expression, which at times
Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike
What youth’s bright mien should wear. My gentle child!
I look on thee in fear!
_Xim._ Thou hast no cause
To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel,
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step
Of armèd men, break on our morning dreams--
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave
Are falling round us, and we deem it much
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour,
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease
Had chill’d their fiery blood;--it is no time
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours,
We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves
Were whispering in the gale.--My father comes--
Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade
His princely aspect with a thought less high
Than his proud duties claim.
Gonzalez _enters_.
_Elm._ My noble lord!
Welcome from this day’s toil! It is the hour
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose
Unto all weary men; and wilt not thou
Free thy mail’d bosom from the corslet’s weight,
To rest at fall of eve?
_Gon._ There may be rest
For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath
His vine and olive he may sit at eve,
Watching his children’s sport: but unto _him_
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height,
When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms
--Who speaks of rest?
_Xim._ My father, shall I fill
The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute
Whose sounds thou lovest?
_Gon._ If there be strains of power
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn
May cast off nature’s feebleness, and hold
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down
Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to those!
I have need of such, Ximena!--we must hear
No melting music now!
_Xim._ I know all high
Heroic ditties of the elder-time,
Sung by the mountain-Christians,[273] in the holds
Of th’ everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear
The print of Freedom’s step; and all wild strains
Wherein the dark serranos[274] teach the rocks
And the pine-forests deeply to resound
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear
The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid?
_Gon._ Ay, speak of him; for in that name is power,
Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him!
We are his children! They that can look back
I’ th’ annals of their house on such a name,
How should _they_ take Dishonour by the hand,
And o’er the threshold of their fathers’ halls
First lead her as a guest?
_Elm._ Oh, why is this?
How my heart sinks!
_Gon._ It must not fail thee _yet_,
Daughter of heroes!--thine inheritance
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number
In thy long line of glorious ancestry
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made
The ground it bathed e’en as an altar, whence
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not,
Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross,
With its victorious inspiration girt
As with a conqueror’s robe, till th’ infidel,
O’erawed, shrank back before them? Ay, the earth
Doth call them martyrs; but _their_ agonies
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope
Lay naught but dust. And earth doth call them _martyrs_!
Why, heaven but claim’d their blood, their lives, and not
The things which grew as tendrils round their hearts;
No, not their children!
_Elm._ Mean’st thou? know’st thou aught?--
I cannot utter it--my sons! my sons!
Is it of them? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them?
_Gon._ A mother’s heart divineth but too well!
_Elm._ Speak, I adjure thee! I can bear it all.
Where are my children?
_Gon._ In the Moorish camp
Whose lines have girt the city.
_Xim._ But they live?
--All is not lost, my mother!
_Elm._ Say, they live.
_Gon._ Elmina, still they live.
_Elm._ But captives! They
Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself
Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds
Where the rock-eagle seem’d not more secure
In its rejoicing freedom! And my boys
Are captives with the Moor!--oh! how was this?
_Gon._ Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls,
With his young brother, eager to behold
The face of noble war. Thence on their way
Were the rash wanderers captured.
_Elm._ ’Tis enough.
--And when shall they be ransom’d?
_Gon._ There is ask’d
A ransom far too high.
_Elm._ What! have we wealth
Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons
The while wear fetters? Take thou all for them,
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us
As ’twere a cumbrous robe! Why, _thou_ art one,
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been
But as the plumage to a warrior’s helm,
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me,
Thou knowst not how serenely I could take
The peasant’s lot upon me, so my heart,
Amidst its deep affections undisturb’d,
May dwell in silence.
_Xim._ Father! doubt thou not
But we will bind ourselves to poverty,
With glad devotedness, if this, but this,
May win them back. Distrust us not, my father!
We can bear all things.
_Gon._ Can ye bear disgrace?
_Xim._ We were not born for this.
_Gon._ No, thou say’st well!
Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child!
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems
Torn from her secret caverns? If by them
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring
Rejoicing to the light! But he for whom
Freedom and life may but be won with shame,
Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens,
And proudly die!
_Elm._ Gonzalez, _who_ must die?
_Gon._ (_hurriedly._) They on whose lives a fearful price is set,
But to be paid by treason! Is’t enough?
Or must I yet seek words?
_Elm._ That look saith more!
Thou canst not mean----
_Gon._ I do! why dwells there not
Power in a glance to speak it? They must die!
They--must their names be told?--_our sons_ must die,
Unless I yield the city!
_Xim._ Oh, look up!
My mother, sink not thus! Until the grave
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope.
_Elm._ (_in a low voice._)
Whose knell was in the breeze? No, no, not _theirs_!
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope?
--And there is hope! I will not be subdued--
I will not hear a whisper of despair!
For nature is all-powerful, and her breath
Moves like a quickening spirit o’er the depths
Within a father’s heart. Thou too, Gonzalez,
Wilt tell me there is hope!
_Gon._ (_solemnly._) Hope but in Him
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when
The bright steel quiver’d in the father’s hand
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice
Through the still clouds and on the breathless air,
Commanding to withhold! Earth has no hope:
It rests with Him.
_Elm._ _Thou_ canst not tell me this!
Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands
Doth lie thy children’s fate.
_Gon._ If there have been
Men in whose bosoms nature’s voice hath made
Its accents as the solitary sound
Of an o’erpowering torrent, silencing
Th’ austere and yet divine remonstrances
Whisper’d by faith and honour, lift thy hands;
And, to that Heaven which arms the brave with strength,