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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

Upon his country’s war-fields, and within The shadow of her altars? Feeble heart! I tell thee that the voice of noble blood, Thus pour’d for faith and freedom, hath a tone Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf Of death, shall burst, and make its high appeal Sound unto earth and heaven! Ay, let the land, Whose sons through centuries of woe have striven, And perish’d by her temples, sink awhile, Borne down in conflict! But immortal seed Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown On all her ancient hills, and generous hope Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet Bring forth a glorious harvest! Earth receives Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain. _Elm._ Then it must be! And ye will make those lives, Those young bright lives, an offering--to retard Our doom one day! _Her._ The mantle of that day May wrap the fate of Spain! _Elm._ What led me here? Why did I turn to _thee_ in my despair? Love hath no ties upon thee; what had I To hope from _thee_, thou lone and childless man? Go to thy silent home!--there no young voice Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring Forth at the sound of thine! What knows thy heart? _Her._ Woman! how darest thou taunt me with my woes? _Thy_ children, too, shall perish, and I say It shall be well! Why takest thou thought for them? Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life Unto its dregs, and making night thy time Of care yet more intense, and casting health Unprized to melt away i’ th’ bitter cup Thou minglest for thyself? Why, what hath earth To pay thee back for this? Shall they not live (If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon All love may be forgotten? Years of thought, Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, That changed not, though to change be this world’s law-- Shall they not flush thy cheek with shame, whose blood Marks e’en like branding iron? to thy sick heart Make death a want, as sleep to weariness? Doth not all hope end thus? or e’en at best, Will they not leave thee? far from thee seek room For the o’erflowings of their fiery souls On life’s wide ocean? Give the bounding steed Or the wing’d bark to youth, that his free course May be o’er hills and seas; and weep thou not In thy forsaken home, for the bright world Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes No thought on thee! _Elm._ Not so! it is not so! Thou dost but torture me! _My_ sons are kind, And brave, and gentle. _Her._ Others, too, have worn The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet; I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth, The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes Which far outweigh thine own. _Elm._ It may not be! _Whose_ grief is like a mother’s for her sons? _Her._ _My_ son lay stretch’d upon his battle-bier, And there were hands wrung o’er him which had caught Their hue from his young blood! _Elm._ What tale is this? _Her._ Read you no records in this mien, of things Whose traces on man’s aspect are not such As the breeze leaves on water? Lofty birth, War, peril, power? Affliction’s hand is strong, If it erase the haughty characters They grave so deep! I have not always been That which I am. The name I bore is not Of those which perish! I was once a chief-- A warrior--nor as now, a lonely man! I was a father! _Elm._ Then thy heart can _feel_! Thou wilt have pity! _Her._ Should I pity _thee_? _Thy_ sons will perish gloriously--their blood---- _Elm._ Their blood! my children’s blood! Thou speak’st as ’twere Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth And wantonness of feasting! My fair boys! --Man! hast _thou_ been a father? _Her._ Let them die! Let them die _now_, thy children! so thy heart Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm’d Within it, to the last! Nor shalt thou learn The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust Are framed the idols whose false glory binds Earth’s fetter on our souls! Thou think’st it much To mourn the early dead; but there are tear’s Heavy with deeper anguish! We endow Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blindness, With power upon our souls, too absolute To be a mortal’s trust! Within their hands We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone Can reach our hearts; and _they_ are merciful, As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us! Ay, fear them! fear the loved! Had I but wept O’er my son’s grave, or o’er a babe’s, where tears Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, And brightening the young verdure, _I_ might still Have loved and trusted! _Elm._ (_disdainfully._) But he fell in war! And hath not glory medicine in her cup For the brief pangs of nature? _Her._ Glory!--Peace, And listen! By my side the stripling grew, Last of my line. I rear’d him to take joy I’ th’ blaze of arms, as eagles train their young To look upon the day-king! His quick blood Even to his boyish cheek would mantle up, When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds-- --But this availeth not! Yet he _was_ brave. I’ve seen him clear himself a path in fight As lightning through a forest; and his plume Waved like a torch above the battle-storm, The soldier’s guide, when princely crests had sunk, And banners were struck down. Around my steps Floated his fame, like music, and I lived But in the lofty sound. But when my heart In one frail ark had ventured all, when most He seem’d to stand between my soul and heaven, --Then came the thunder-stroke! _Elm._ ’Tis ever thus! And the unquiet and foreboding sense That thus ’twill ever be, doth link itself Darkly with all deep love! He died? _Her._ Not so! --Death! Death! Why, earth should be a paradise, To make that name so fearful! Had he died, With his young fame about him for a shroud, I had not learn’d the might of agony To bring proud natures low! No! he fell off-- Why do I tell thee this? what right hast _thou_ To learn how pass’d the glory from my house? Yet listen! He forsook me! He, that was As mine own soul, forsook me! trampled o’er The ashes of his sires! ay, leagued himself E’en with the infidel, the curse of Spain; And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, Abjured his faith, his God! Now, talk of death! _Elm._ Oh! I can pity thee---- _Her._ There’s more to hear. I braced the corslet o’er my heart’s deep wound, And cast my troubled spirit on the tide Of war and high events, whose stormy waves Might bear it up from sinking;---- _Elm._ And ye met No more? _Her._ Be still! We did! we met _once_ more. God had his own high purpose to fulfil, Or think’st thou that the sun in his bright heaven Had look’d upon such things? We met _once more_. That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark Sear’d upon brain and bosom! There had been Combat on Ebro’s banks, and when the day Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed round-- A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow Of whose broad wing, e’en unto death, I strove Long with a turban’d champion; but my sword Was heavy with God’s vengeance--and prevail’d. He fell--my heart exulted--and I stood In gloomy triumph o’er him. Nature gave No sign of horror, for ’twas Heaven’s decree! He strove to speak--but I had done the work Of wrath too well; yet in his last deep moan A dreadful something of familiar sound Came o’er my shuddering sense. The moon look’d forth, And I beheld--speak not!--twas he--my son! My boy lay dying there! He raised one glance And knew me--for he sought with feeble hand To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil Sank o’er them soon. I will not have thy look Fix’d on me thus! Away! _Elm._ Thou hast seen this, Thou hast _done_ this--and yet thou liv’st? _Her._ I live! And know’st thou wherefore? On my soul there fell A horror of great darkness, which shut out All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away The spear and helm, and made the cloister’s shade The home of my despair. But a deep voice Came to me through the gloom, and sent its tones Far through my bosom’s depths. And I awoke; Ay, as the mountain-cedar doth shake off Its weight of wintry snow, e’en so I shook Despondence from my soul, and knew myself Seal’d by that blood wherewith my hands were dyed, And set apart, and fearfully mark’d out Unto a mighty task! To rouse the soul Of Spain as from the dead; and to lift up The Cross, her sign of victory, on the hills, Gathering her sons to battle! And my voice Must be as freedom’s trumpet on the winds, From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves Where Calpe looks on Afric; till the land Have fill’d her cup of vengeance! Ask me _now_ To yield the Christian city, that its fanes May rear the minaret in the face of heaven!-- But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast Ere that day come! _Elm._ I ask thee this no more, For I am hopeless now. But yet one boon-- Hear me, by all thy woes! Thy voice hath power Through the wide city: here I cannot rest-- Aid me to pass the gates! _Her._ And wherefore? _Elm._ Thou, That _wert_ a father, and art now--alone! Canst _thou_ ask “wherefore?” Ask the wretch whose sands Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs Have but one earthly journey to perform, Why, on his pathway to the place of death, Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parch’d lip Implores a cup of water? Why, the stroke Which trembles o’er him in itself shall bring Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies Nature’s last prayer? I tell thee that the thirst Which burns my spirit up is agony To be endured no more! And I _must_ look Upon my children’s faces, I must hear Their voices, ere they perish! But hath heaven Decreed that they _must_ perish? Who shall say If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart Which prayers and tears may melt? _Her._ There!--with the Moor! Let him fill up the measure of his guilt! --’Tis madness all! How wouldst thou pass th’ array Of armèd foes? _Elm._ Oh! free doth sorrow pass, Free and unquestion’d, through a suffering world![275] _Her._ This must not be. Enough of woe is laid E’en now upon thy lord’s heroic soul, For man to bear, unsinking. Press thou not Too heavily th’ o’erburthen’d heart. Away! Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for strength Up to heaven’s gate. Farewell! [_Exit_ Hernandez. _Elm._ Are all men thus? --Why, were’t not better they should fall e’en now Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty scorn, Against the sufferer’s pleadings? But no, no! Who can be like _this_ man, that slew his son, Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul Untamed upon his brow? (_After a pause._) There’s one, whose arms Have borne my children in their infancy, And on whose knees they sported, and whose hand Hath led them oft--a vassal of their sire’s; And I will seek him: he may lend me aid,