The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Now the last drop of bitterness is pour’d.
Elmina--I forgive thee!
[_Exit_ Elmina.
Aid me, Heaven!
From whom alone is power! Oh! thou hast set
Duties so stern of aspect in my path,
They almost to my startled gaze assume
The hue of things less hallow’d! Men have sunk
Unblamed beneath such trials! Doth not He
Who made us know the limits of our strength?
My wife! my sons! Away! I must not pause
To give my heart one moment’s mastery thus!
[_Exit_ Gonzalez.
[273] Mountain-Christians, those natives of Spain who, under their
prince Pelayo, took refuge amongst the mountains of the northern
provinces, where they maintained their religion and liberty, whilst the
rest of their country was overrun by the Moors.
[274] _Serranos_, mountaineers.
Scene II.--_The Aisle of a Gothic Church._
Hernandez, Garcias, _and Others_.
_Her._ The rites are closed. Now, valiant men! depart,
Each to his place--I may not say, of rest--
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win
What must not be your own. Ye are as those
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade
They may not sit. But bless’d be those who toil
For after-days! All high and holy thoughts
Be with you, warriors! through the lingering hours
Of the night-watch.
_Gar._ Ay, father! we have need
Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence
Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been
From youth a son of war. The stars have look’d
A thousand times upon my couch of heath,
Spread midst the wild sierras, by some stream
Whose dark-red waves look’d e’en as though their source
Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins
Of noble hearts; while many a knightly crest
Roll’d with them to the deep. And, in the years
Of my long exile and captivity,
With the fierce Arab I have watch’d beneath
The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm,
At midnight in the desert; while the wind
Swell’d with the lion’s roar, and heavily
The fearfulness and might of solitude
Press’d on my weary heart.
_Her._ (_thoughtfully._) Thou little know’st
Of what is solitude! I tell thee, those
For whom--in earth’s remotest nook, howe’er
Divided from their path by chain on chain
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude
Of rolling seas--there beats one human heart,
Their breathes one being, unto whom their name
Comes with a thrilling and a gladd’ning sound
Heard o’er the din of life, are not alone!
Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone;
For there is that on earth with which they hold
A brotherhood of soul! Call _him_ alone,
Who stands shut out from this!--and let not those
Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with love,
Put on the insolence of happiness,
Glorying in that proud lot! A lonely hour
Is on its way to each, to all; for Death
Knows no companionship.
_Gar._ I have look’d on Death
In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet
Hath aught weigh’d down my spirit to a mood
Of sadness, dreaming o’er dark auguries,
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things
Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth,
Omens in heaven! The summer skies put forth
No clear bright stars above us, but at times,
Catching some comet’s fiery hue of wrath,
Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing
Heaven with the rush of meteor-steeds--th’ array
Of spears and banners tossing like the pines
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm
Doth sweep the mountains.
_Her._ Ay, last night I too
Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens;
And I beheld the meeting and the shock
Of those wild hosts i’ th’ air, when, as they closed,
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles
The thunder’s path, fell o’er them. Then were flung
Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth;
And chariots seem’d to whirl, and steeds to sink,
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this
Was dim and shadowy; then swift darkness rush’d
Down on th’ unearthly battle, as the deep
Swept o’er the Egyptian’s armament. I look’d,
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears
Was blotted from heaven’s face! I look’d again,
And from the brooding mass of cloud leap’d forth
One meteor-sword, which o’er the reddening sea
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes give
Unto a rocking citadel! I beheld,
And yet my spirit sank not.
_Gar._ Neither deem
That mine hath blench’d. But these are sights and sounds
To awe the firmest. Know’st thou what we hear
At midnight from the walls? Were’t but the deep
Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour’s peal,
Thence might the warrior’s heart catch impulses
Quickening its fiery currents. But our ears
Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell
For brave men in their noon of strength cut down,
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e’en the air
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament,
As if the viewless watchers of the land
Sigh’d on its hollow breezes! To my soul
The torrent-rush of battle, with its din
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply,
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe,
As the free sky’s glad music unto him
Who leaves a couch of sickness.
_Her._ (_with solemnity._) If to plunge
In the mid waves of combat, as they bear
Chargers and spearmen onwards, and to make
A reckless bosom’s front the buoyant mark,
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows--
If _thus_ to dare were valour’s noblest aim,
Lightly might fame be won! But there are things,
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch,
And courage temper’d with a holier fire.
Well may’st thou say that these are fearful times;
Therefore, be firm, be patient! There is strength,
And a fierce instinct, e’en in common souls,
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy,
When red swords meet in lightning! But our task
Is more and nobler! We have to endure,
And to keep watch, and to arouse a land,
And to defend an altar! If we fall,
So that our blood make but the millionth part
Of Spain’s great ransom, we may count it joy
To die upon her bosom, and beneath
The banner of her faith! Think but on this,
And gird your hearts with silent fortitude,
Suffering, yet hoping all things. Fare ye well.
_Gar._ Father, farewell.
[_Exeunt_ Garcias _and his followers_.
_Her._ These men have earthly ties
And bondage on their natures! To the cause
Of God, and Spain’s revenge, they bring but half
Their energies and hopes. But he whom heaven
Hath call’d to be th’ awakener of a land,
Should have his soul’s affections all absorb’d
In that majestic purpose, and press on
To its fulfilment--as a mountain-born
And mighty stream, with all its vassal rills,
Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not
To dally with the flowers. Hark! what quick step
Comes hurrying through the gloom, at this dead hour?
Elmina _enters_.
_Elm._ Are not all hours as one to misery? Why
Should _she_ take note of time, for whom the day
And night have lost their blessed attributes
Of sunshine and repose?
_Her._ I know thy griefs;
But there are trials for the noble heart,
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply
All it can hope of comfort. Pity’s voice
Comes with vain sweetness to th’ unheeding ear
Of anguish, e’en as music heard afar
On the green shore, by him who perishes
Midst rocks and eddying waters.
_Elm._ Think thou not
I sought thee but for pity. I am come
For that which grief is privileged to demand
With an imperious claim, from all whose form--
Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering!
Father! I ask thine _aid_.
_Her._ There is no aid
For thee or for thy children, but with Him
Whose presence is around us in the cloud,
As in the shining and the glorious light.
_Elm._ There is no aid! Art thou a man of God?
Art thou a man of sorrow?--for the world
Doth call thee such;--and hast thou not been taught
By God and sorrow--mighty as they are--
To own the claims of misery?
_Her._ Is there power
With me to save thy sons?--implore of heaven!
_Elm._ Doth not heaven work its purposes by man?
I tell thee _thou_ canst save them! Art thou not
Gonsalez’ counsellor? Unto him thy words
Are e’en as oracles----
_Her._ And therefore? Speak!--
The noble daughter of Pelayo’s line
Hath naught to ask unworthy of the name
Which is a nation’s heritage. Dost thou shrink?
_Elm._ Have pity on me, father! I must speak
That, from the thought of which but yesterday
I had recoil’d in scorn! But this is past
Oh! we grow humble in our agonies,
And to the dust--their birthplace--bow the heads
That wore the crown of glory! I am weak--
My chastening is far more than I can bear.
_Her._ These are no times for weakness. On our hills
The ancient cedars, in their gather’d might,
Are battling with the tempest, and the flower
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die.
But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem
Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head,
Daughter of Spain!--what wouldst thou with thy lord?
_Elm._ Look not upon me thus! I have no power
To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye
Off from my soul! What! am I sunk to this?
I, whose blood sprung from heroes! How my sons
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace
On their majestic line! My sons! my sons!
--Now is all else forgotten! I had once
A babe that in the early spring-time lay
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last,
When earth’s young flowers were opening to the sun,
Death sank on his meek eyelid, and I deem’d
All sorrow light to mine! But now the fate
Of all my children seems to brood above me
In the dark thunder-clouds! Oh! I have power
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst win
The father to relent, to save his sons!
_Her._ By yielding up the city?
_Elm._ Rather say
By meeting that which gathers close upon us,
Perchance one day the sooner! Is’t not so?
Must we not yield at last? How long shall man
Array his single breast against disease,
And famine, and the sword?
_Her._ How long? While He
Who shadows forth his power more gloriously
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul,
Than in the circling heavens with all their stars,
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate,
In the good cause, with solemn joy! How long?
--And who art _thou_ that, in the littleness
Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set bounds
To the free current of all noble thought
And generous action, bidding its bright waves
Be stay’d, and flow no farther? But the Power
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs,
To chain them in from wandering, hath assign’d
No limits unto that which man’s high strength
Shall, through its aid, achieve!
_Elm._ Oh! there are times,
When _all_ that hopeless courage can achieve
But sheds a mournful beauty o’er the fate
Of those who die in vain.
_Her._ _Who_ dies in vain