The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Pray that the father of thy sons may ne’er
Be thus found wanting!
_Elm._ Then their doom is seal’d!
Thou wilt not save thy children?
_Gon._ Hast thou cause,
Wife of my youth! to deem it lies within
The bounds of possible things, that I should link
My name to that word--_traitor_? They that sleep
On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine,
Died not for this!
_Elm._ Oh, cold and hard of heart!
Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free
Its haughty flight! Men! men! too much is yours
Of vantage; ye that with a sound, a breath,
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space
Of rooted-up affections, o’er whose void
Our yearning hearts must wither! So it is,
Dominion must be won! Nay, leave me not--
My heart is bursting, and I _must_ be heard!
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony,
As to the elements in their hour of might
And mastery o’er creation! Who shall dare
To mock that fearful strength! I _must_ be heard!
Give me my sons.
_Gon._ That they may live to hide
With covering hands th’ indignant flush of shame
On their young brows, when men shall speak of him
They call’d their father! Was the oath whereby,
On th’ altar of my faith, I bound myself
With an unswerving spirit to maintain
This free and Christian city for my God
And for my king, a writing traced on sand?
That passionate tears should wash it from the earth,
Or e’en the life-drops of a bleeding heart
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away
The last light vessel’s wake? Then never more
Let man’s deep vows be trusted!--though enforced
By all th’ appeals of high remembrances,
And silent claims o’ th’ sepulchres wherein
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep,
On their good swords! Think’st thou _I_ feel no pangs?
He that hath given me sons doth know the heart
Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more:
’Tis vain. I tell thee that th’ inviolate Cross
Still from our ancient temples must look up
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its foot
I perish, with my race. Thou _darest_ not ask
That I, the son of warriors--men who died
To fix it on that proud supremacy--
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor
In impious joy to trample!
_Elm._ Scorn me not
In mine extreme of misery! Thou art strong--
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild;
I know not what I ask. And yet ’twere but
Anticipating fate--since it must fall,
That Cross _must_ fall at last! There is no power,
No hope within this city of the grave,
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor
Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark,
Than th’ arrow of the desert. Even the skies
O’erhang the desolate splendour of her domes
With an ill omen’s aspect, shaping forth,
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs
Foreboding ruin. _Man_ might be withstood,
But who shall cope with famine and disease
When leagued with armèd foes? Where now the aid,
Where the long-promised lances of Castile?
We are forsaken in our utmost need--
By heaven and earth forsaken!
_Gon._ If this be,
(And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall
As men that in severe devotedness
Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to death,
Through high conviction that their suffering land
By the free blood of martyrdom alone
Shall call deliverance down.
_Elm._ Oh! I have stood
Beside thee through the beating storms of life
With the true heart of unrepining love--
As the poor peasant’s mate doth cheerily,
In the parch’d vineyard, or the harvest field,
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat
And burden of the day. But now the hour,
The heavy hour is come, when human strength
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust,
Owning that woe is mightier! Spare me yet
This bitter cup, my husband! Let not her,
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn
In her unpeopled home--a broken stem,
O’er its fallen roses dying!
_Gon._ Urge me not,
Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found
Worthy a brave man’s love!--oh, urge me not
To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears,
In its own hues thou seest not! Death may scarce
Bring aught like this!
_Elm._ All, all thy gentle race,
The beautiful beings that around thee grew,
Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all?
She, too, thy daughter--doth her smile unmark’d
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day?
Shadows are gathering round her: seest thou not
The misty dimness of the spoiler’s breath
Hangs o’er her beauty; and the face which made
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send,
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul,
Telling of early fate?
_Gon._ I see a change
Far nobler on her brow! She is as one,
Who, at the trumpet’s sudden call, hath risen
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm,
Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost
The beam which laugh’d upon th’ awakening heart,
E’en as morn breaks o’er earth. But far within
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source
Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch,
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade!
The altar-flame, i’ th’ sanctuary’s recess,
Burns quenchless, being of heaven! She hath put on
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy,
Even as a breastplate. Ay! men look on her,
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks,
Binding the warrior’s wounds, and bearing fresh
Cool draughts to fever’d lips--they look on her,
Thus moving in her beautiful array
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn
Unto their heavy toils.
_Elm._ And seest thou not
In that high faith and strong collectedness,
A fearful inspiration? _They_ have cause
To tremble, who behold th’ unearthly light
Of high and, it may be, prophetic thought
Investing youth with grandeur! From the grave
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child
Waits but a father’s hand to snatch her back
Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me;
Ximena! kneel beside me, and implore
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied,
--His children’s lives!
_Xim._ Alas! this may not be:
Mother!--I cannot.
[_Exit_ Ximena.
_Gon._ My heroic child!
--A terrible sacrifice thou claim’st, O God!
From creatures in whose agonising hearts
Nature is strong as death!
_Elm._ Is ’t thus in thine?
Away! What time is given thee to resolve
On--what I cannot utter? Speak! thou know’st
Too well what I would say.
_Gon._ Until--ask not!
The time is brief.
_Elm._ Thou said’st--I heard not right----
_Gon._ The time is brief.
_Elm._ What! must we burst all ties
Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined!
And, for this task’s fulfilment, can it be
That man in his cold heartlessness, hath dared,
To number and to mete us forth the sands
Of hours, nay, moments? Why, the sentenced wretch,
He on whose soul there rests a brother’s blood
Pour’d forth in slumber, is allow’d more time
To wean his turbulent passions from the world
His presence doth pollute! It is not thus?
We must have time to school us.
_Gon._ We have but
To bow the head in silence, when heaven’s voice
Calls back the things we love.
_Elm._ Love! love!--there are soft smiles and gentle words,
And there are faces, skilful to put on
The look we trust in--and ’tis mockery all!
--A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat
The thirst that semblance kindled! There is none,
In all this cold and hollow world--no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother’s heart. It is but pride, wherewith
To his fair son the father’s eye doth turn,
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks,
The bright glad creature springing in his path,
But as the heir of his great name--the young
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!
This is _man’s_ love! What marvel!--_you_ ne’er made
Your breast the pillow of his infancy,
While to the fulness of your heart’s glad heavings
His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair
Waved softly to your breath! _You_ ne’er kept watch
Beside him, till the last pale star had set,
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke
On your dim weary eye; not _yours_ the face
Which, early faded through fond care for him,
Hung o’er his sleep, and, duly as heaven’s light,
Was there to greet his wak’ning! _You_ ne’er smooth’d
His couch, ne’er sang him to his rosy rest;
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learn’d soft utterance; press’d your lip to his,
When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries,
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are _woman’s_ tasks!--in these her youth,
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
Steal from her all unmark’d! My boys! my boys!
Hath vain affection borne with all for this?
--Why were ye given me?
_Gon._ Is there strength in man
Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through all
Its depths of silent agony, the heart
Thy voice of woe doth rend!
_Elm._ Thy heart--_thy_ heart! Away! it feels not _now_!
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man
Unto the infant’s weakness; nor shall heaven
Spare you that bitter chastening! May you live
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem
Most heavy to sustain! For me, my voice
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon
With all forgotten sounds--my quiet place
Low with my lovely ones; and we shall sleep,
Though kings lead armies o’er us--we shall sleep,
Wrapt in earth’s covering mantle! You the while
Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls,
And hear the wild and melancholy winds
Moan through their drooping banners, never more
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up
Shadows--dim phantoms from ancestral tombs,
But all, all--_glorious_,--conquerors, chieftains, kings,
To people that cold void! And when the strength
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more
A fiery wakening,--if at last you pine
For the glad voices and the bounding steps
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light
Of eyes that laugh’d with youth, and made your board
A place of sunshine,--when those days are come,
Then, in your utter desolation, turn
To the cold world--the smiling, faithless world,
Which hath swept past you long--and bid it quench
Your soul’s deep thirst with _fame_! immortal _fame_!
Fame to the sick of heart!--a gorgeous robe,
A crown of victory, unto him that dies
I’ th’ burning waste, for water!
_Gon._ This from _thee_!