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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

Of nature, in her anguish? Warrior, man, To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts, By thousands and ten thousands marshall’d round, And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke Which the lance wards not! Where shall your high heart Find refuge then, if in the day of might Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet, And you have pitied not? _Abd._ These are vain words. _Elm._ Have you no children?--fear ye not to bring The lightning on their heads? In your own land Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath Your native palms, look o’er the deserts out, To greet your homeward step? You have not yet Forgot so utterly her patient love-- For is not woman’s in all climes the same?-- That you should scorn _my_ prayer! Oh heaven! his eye Doth wear no mercy! _Abd._ Then it mocks you not. I have swept o’er the mountains of your land, Leaving my traces, as the visitings Of storms upon them! Shall I now be stay’d? Know, unto me it were as light a thing, In this my course, to quench your children’s lives, As, journeying through a forest, to break off The young wild branches that obstruct the way With their green sprays and leaves. _Elm._ Are there such hearts Amongst thy works, O God? _Abd._ Kneel not to me. Kneel to your lord! on his resolves doth hang His children’s doom. He may be lightly won By a few bursts of passionate tears and words. _Elm._ (_rising indignantly._) Speak not of noble men! He bears a soul Stronger than love or death. _Alph._ (_with exultation._) I knew ’twas thus! He could not fail! _Elm._ There is no mercy, none, On this cold earth! To strive with such a world, Hearts should be void of love! We will go hence, My children! we are summon’d. Lay your heads, In their young radiant beauty, once again To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round, Will yet have pity, and before His face We three will stand together! Moslem! now Let the stroke fall at once! _Abd._ ’Tis thine own will. These might e’en yet be spared. _Elm._ _Thou_ wilt not spare! And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew, And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear From their first lisping accents caught the sound Of that word--_Father_--once a name of love-- Is----Men shall call him _steadfast_. _Abd._ Hath the blast Of sudden trumpets ne’er at dead of night, When the land’s watchers fear’d no hostile step, Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world, In cities, whose heroic lords have been _Steadfast_ as thine? _Elm._ There’s meaning in thine eye, More than thy words. _Abd._ (_pointing to the city._) Look to yon towers and walls! Think you no hearts within their limits pine, Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared To burst the feeble links which bind them still Unto endurance. _Elm._ Thou hast said too well. But what of this? _Abd._ Then there are those, to whom The Prophet’s armies not as foes would pass Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not In some still hour, when weariness takes rest, Be won to welcome us? Your children’s steps May yet bound lightly through their father’s halls! _Alph._ (_indignantly._) Thou treacherous Moor! _Elm._ Let me not thus be tried Beyond all strength, O heaven! _Abd._ Now, ’tis for _thee_, Thou Christian mother! on thy sons to pass The sentence--life or death! The price is set On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. _Alph._ Mother! thou tremblest! _Abd._ Hath thy heart resolved? _Elm._ (_covering her face with her hands._) My boy’s proud eye is on me, and the things Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer _here_. _Abd._ Come forth. We’ll commune elsewhere. _Car._ (_to his mother._) Wilt thou go? Oh! let me follow thee! _Elm._ Mine own fair child! Now that thine eyes have pour’d once more on mine The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice Hath sent its gentle music through my soul, And I have felt the twining of thine arms-- How shall I leave thee? _Abd._ Leave him, as ’twere but For a brief slumber, to behold his face At morning, with the sun’s. _Alph._ Thou hast no look For me, my mother! _Elm._ Oh! that I should live To say, I _dare_ not look on thee! Farewell, My first-born, fare thee well! _Alph._ Yet, yet beware! It were a grief more heavy on thy soul, That I should blush for thee, than o’er my grave That thou shouldst proudly weep! _Abd._ Away! we trifle here. The night wanes fast. Come forth! _Elm._ One more embrace! My sons, farewell! [_Exeunt_ Abdullah _with_ Elmina _and her Attendant_. _Alph._ Hear me yet once, my mother! Art thou gone? But one word more! [_He rushes out, followed by_ Carlos. [276] _Tecbir_, the war-cry of the Moors and Arabs. [277] Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid’s favourite sword, taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar. [278] Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged and taken by the armies of different nations, remained in possession of the Moors for a hundred and seventy years after the Cid’s death. It was regained from them by King Don Jayme of Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whose success I have ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the Campeador. Scene V.--_The Garden of a Palace in Valencia._ Ximena, Theresa. _Ther._ Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes, And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs, Than waits you in the city. _Xim._ There are those In their last need, and on their bed of death,-- At which no hand doth minister but mine,-- That wait me in the city. Let us hence. _Ther._ You have been wont to love the music made By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds, Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn From these to scenes of death? _Xim._ To me the voice Of summer, whispering through young flowers and leaves, Now speaks too deep a language! and of all Its dreamy and mysterious melodies, The breathing soul is sadness! I have felt That summons through my spirit, after which The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is cause That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts, And pouring winter through the fiery blood, And fettering the strong arm! For now no sigh In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven, No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf, But of his angel’s silent coming bears Some token to my soul. But naught of this Unto my mother! These are awful hours! And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd With such dark pressure, there is left no room For one grief more. _Ther._ Sweet lady, talk not thus! Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light, There’s more of life in its clear tremulous ray Than I have mark’d of late. Nay, go not yet; Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring From the transparent waters, dashing round Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness, O’er the pale glistening marble. ’Twill call up Faint bloom, if but a moment’s, to your cheek. Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing The melody you love. Theresa _sings_. Why is the Spanish maiden’s grave So far from her own bright land? The sunny flowers that o’er it wave Were sown by no kindred hand. ’Tis not the orange-bough that sends Its breath on the sultry air, ’Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends To the breeze of evening there! But the rose of Sharon’s eastern bloom By the silent dwelling fades, And none but strangers pass the tomb Which the palm of Judah shades. The lowly Cross, with flowers o’ergrown, Marks well that place of rest; But who hath graved, on its mossy stone, A sword, a helm, a crest? These are the trophies of a chief, A lord of the axe and spear! --Some blossom pluck’d, some faded leaf, Should grace a maiden’s bier! Scorn not her tomb--deny not her The honours of the brave! O’er that forsaken sepulchre Banner and plume might wave. She bound the steel, in battle tried, Her fearless heart above, And stood with brave men side by side, In the strength and faith of love! That strength prevail’d--that faith was bless’d! True was the javelin thrown, Yet pierced it not her warrior’s breast-- She met it with her own! And nobly won, where heroes fell In arms for the holy shrine, A death which saved what she loved so well, And a grave in Palestine. Then let the rose of Sharon spread Its breast to the glowing air, And the palm of Judah lift its head, Green and immortal there! And let yon gray stone, undefaced, With its trophy mark the scene, Telling the pilgrim of the waste Where Love and Death have been. _Xim._ Those notes were wont to make my heart beat quick, As at a voice of victory; but to-day The spirit of the song is changed, and seems All mournful. Oh! that, ere my early grave Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth Beneath my father’s banner! In that sound Were life to you, sweet brothers!--But for me-- Come on--our tasks await us. They who know Their hours are number’d out, have little time To give the vague and slumberous languor way, Which doth steal o’er them in the breath of flowers, And whisper of soft winds. [Elmina _enters hurriedly_. _Elm._ The air will calm my spirit, ere yet I meet His eye, which must be met.--Thou here, Ximena! [_She starts back on seeing_ Ximena. _Xim._ Alas! my mother! in that hurrying step And troubled glance I read---- _Elm._ (_wildly._) Thou read’st it not! Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye The things lay glaring, which within our hearts We treasure up for God’s? Thou read’st it not! I say, thou canst not! There’s not one on earth Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves have made And kept dark places in the very breast Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour When the graves open! _Xim._ Mother! what is this! Alas! your eye is wandering, and your cheek Flush’d, as with fever! To your woes the night Hath brought no rest. _Elm._ Rest!--who should rest?--not he That holds one earthly blessing to his heart Nearer than life! No! if this world have aught Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls Such things his own, take rest!--Dark spirits keep watch; And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame, Were as heaven’s air, the vital element Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their souls Made marks for human scorn! Will they bear on With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all Its glorious drapery? Who shall tell us this?