The Poems of Felicia Hemans
When all beside pass on.
DIRGE, (_heard without_.)
Thou to thy rest art gone,
High heart! and what are we,
While o’er our heads the storm sweeps on,
That we should mourn for thee?
Free grave and peaceful bier
To the buried son of Spain!
To those that live, the lance and spear,
And well if not the chain!
Be _theirs_ to weep the dead,
As they sit beneath their vines,
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread
Of spoilers o’er its shrines!
Thou hast thrown off the load
Which we must yet sustain,
And pour our blood where _thine_ hath flow’d,
Too blest if not in vain!
We give thee holy rite,
Slow knell, and chanted strain!
--For those that fall to-morrow night,
May be left no funeral-train.
Again, when trumpets wake,
We must brace our armour on;
But a deeper note _thy_ sleep must break--
Thou to thy rest art gone!
Happier in _this_ than all,
That, now thy race is run,
Upon thy name no stain may fall,
Thy work hath well been done!
_Elm._ “Thy work hath well been done!”--so thou may’st rest!
--There is a solemn lesson in those words--
But now I may not pause.
[_Exit_ Elmina.
[275]
“Frey geht das Unglück durch die ganze Erde.”
Schiller’s _Death of Wallenstein_, act iv. sc. 2.
Scene III.--_A Street in the City._
Hernandez, Gonzalez.
_Her._ Would they not hear?
_Gon._ They heard, as one that stands
By the cold grave, which hath but newly closed
O’er his last friend, doth hear some passer-by
Bid him be comforted! Their hearts have died
Within them! We must perish, not as those
That fall when battle’s voice doth shake the hills,
And peal through heaven’s great arch, but silently,
And with a wasting of the spirit down,
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark,
Which lit us on our toils! Reproach me not;
My soul is darken’d with a heavy cloud--
Yet fear not I shall yield!
_Her._ Breathe not the word,
Save in proud scorn! Each bitter day o’erpass’d
By slow endurance, is a triumph won
For Spain’s red Cross. And be of trusting heart!
A few brief hours, and those that turn’d away
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice,
May crowd around their leader, and demand
To be array’d for battle. We must watch
For the swift impulse, and await its time,
As the bark waits the ocean’s. You have chosen
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance,
When they were weary; they had cast aside
Their arms to slumber; or a knell, just then,
With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood
Creep shuddering through their veins; or they had caught
A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth
Strange omens from its blaze.
_Gon._ Alas! the cause
Lies deeper, in their misery! I have seen,
In my night’s course through this beleaguer’d city,
Things whose remembrance doth not pass away
As vapours from the mountains. There were some,
That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein
Grief had ta’en place of sight, and shut out all
But its own ghastly object. To my voice
Some answer’d with a fierce and bitter laugh,
As men whose agonies were made to pass
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word,
Dropt from the light of spirit. Others lay--
Why should I tell thee, father! how despair
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down
Unto the very dust? And yet for this,
Fear not that I embrace my doom--O God!
That ’twere _my_ doom alone!--with less of fix’d
And solemn fortitude. Lead on, prepare
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life;
--But what are these? Who hath not dearer lives
Twined with his own! I shall be lonely soon--
Childless! Heaven wills it so. Let us begone.
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat
With a less troubled motion.
[_Exeunt_ Gonzalez _and_ Hernandez.
Scene IV.--_A Tent in the Moorish Camp._
Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos.
_Abd._ These are bold words: but hast thou look’d on death,
Fair stripling? On thy cheek and sunny brow
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step
Hath climb’d some eagle’s nest, and thou hast made
His nest thy spoil, ’tis much! And fear’st thou not
The leader of the mighty?
_Alph._ I have been
Rear’d amongst fearless men, and midst the rocks
And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought
And won their battles. There are glorious tales
Told of their deeds, and I have learn’d them all.
How should I fear thee, Moor?
_Abd._ So, thou hast seen
Fields, where the combat’s roar hath died away
Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers
Bloom o’er forgotten graves! But know’st thou aught
Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes fire,
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts
That ruled the storm so late?--Speak not of death
Till thou hast look’d on such.
_Alph._ I was not born
A shepherd’s son, to dwell with pipe and crook,
And peasant men, amidst the lowly vales;
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears,
And crested knights! I am of princely race;
And, if my father would have heard my suit.
I tell thee, infidel, that long ere now
I should have seen how lances meet, and swords
Do the field’s work.
_Abd._ Boy!--know’st thou there are sights
A thousand times more fearful? Men may die
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring
To battle-horn and tecbir.[276] But not all
So pass away in glory. There are those,
Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes,
Led forth in fetters--dost thou mark me, boy?--
To take their last look of th’ all-gladdening sun,
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth
Unto the death of shame!--Hadst thou seen this----
_Alph._ (_to Carlos._) Sweet brother, God is with us--fear thou not!
We have had heroes for our sires:--this man
Should not behold us tremble.
_Abd._ There are means
To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls,
Sue to thy sire for life!--or would’st thou die
With this thy brother?
_Alph._ Moslem! on the hills,
Around my father’s castle, I have heard
The mountain-peasants, as they dress’d the vines,
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home,
Singing their ancient songs; and these were all
Of the Cid Campeador; and how his sword
Tizona[277] clear’d its way through turban’d hosts,
And captured Afric’s kings, and how he won
Valencia from the Moor.[278] I will not shame
The blood we draw from him!
[_A Moorish soldier enters._
_Sol._ Valencia’s lord
Sends messengers, my chief.
_Abd._ Conduct them hither.
[_The soldier goes out and re-enters with_
Elmina, _disguised, and an attendant_.
_Car._ (_springing forward to the attendant._)
Oh! take me hence, Diego! take me hence
With thee, that I may see my mother’s face
At morning when I wake. Here dark-brow’d men
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us.
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind,
And well I know thou lov’st me, my Diego!
_Abd._ Peace, boy!--What tidings, Christian, from thy lord?
Is he grown humbler?--doth he set the lives
Of these fair nurslings at a city’s worth?
_Alph._ (_rushing forward impatiently._)
Say not he doth!--Yet wherefore art thou here?
If it be so, I could weep burning tears
For very shame! If this _can_ be, return!
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils,
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword,
And that beside him in the mountain-chase,
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts,
My place shall be no more! But no!--I wrong,
I wrong my father! Moor, believe it not:
He is a champion of the Cross and Spain,
Sprung from the Cid!--and I, too, I can die
As a warrior’s high-born child!
_Elm._ Alas, alas!
And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy?
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst cast
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart,
Ere yet the blight be come?
_Alph._ That voice doth sound----
_Abd._ Stranger, who art thou?--this is mockery! speak!
_Elm._ (_throwing off a mantle and helmet, and embracing her sons._)
My boys! whom I have rear’d through many hours
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts
Untold and unimagined; let me die
With you, now I have held you to my heart,
And seen once more the faces, in whose light
My soul hath lived for years!
_Car._ Sweet mother! now
Thou shalt not leave us more.
_Abd._ Enough of this!
Woman! what seek’st thou here? How hast thou dared
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts?
_Elm._ Think’st thou there dwells no courage but in breasts
That set their mail against the ringing spears,
When helmets are struck down? Thou little know’st
Of nature’s marvels. Chief! my heart is nerved
To make its way through things which warrior men,
Ay, they that master death by field or flood,
Would look on, ere they braved! I have no thought,
No sense of fear! Thou’rt mighty! but a soul
Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power
Of that one feeling pour’d through all its depths,
Than monarchs with their hosts? Am I not come
To die with these my children?
_Abd._ Doth thy faith
Bid thee do this, fond Christian? Hast thou not
The means to save them?
_Elm._ I have prayers, and tears,
And agonies!--and he, my God--the God
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour
To bow the crested head--hath made these things
Most powerful in a world where all must learn
That one deep language, by the storm call’d forth
From the bruised reeds of earth! For thee, perchance,
Affliction’s chastening lesson hath not yet
Been laid upon thy heart; and thou may’st love
To see the creatures, by its might brought low,
Humbled before thee.
[_She throws herself at his feet._
Conqueror, I can kneel!
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself
E’en to thy feet! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves,
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased!
Do this, but spare my sons!
_Alph._ (_attempting to raise her._) Thou shouldst not kneel
Unto this infidel! Rise, rise, my mother!
This sight doth shame our house!
_Abd._ Thou daring boy!
They that in arms have taught thy father’s land
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty mien
Unto another language.
_Elm._ Peace, my son!
Have pity on my heart! Oh, pardon, chief!
He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet!
Are there no lives through which the shafts of heaven
May reach your soul? He that loves aught on earth,
Dares far too much, if he be merciless!
Is it for those, whose frail mortality
Must one day strive alone with God and death,
To shut their souls against th’ appealing voice