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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

Whence thou hast snatch’d it back, to bear from earth, All stainless, on thy breast. Well hast thou done-- But I--canst thou forgive? _Gon._ Within this hour I’ve stood upon that verge whence mortals fall, And learn’d how ’tis with one whose sight grows dim, And whose foot trembles on the gulf’s dark side. Death purifies all feeling: we will part In pity and in love. _Elm._ Death! And thou too Art on thy way! Oh, joy for thee, high heart! Glory and joy for thee! The day is closed, And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself Through its long battle-toils, though many swords Have enter’d thine own soul! But on my head Recoil the fierce invokings of despair, And I am left far distanced in the race, The lonely one of earth! Ay, this is just. I am not worthy that upon my breast In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield Thy spirit unto God! _Gon._ Thou art! thou art! Oh! a life’s love, a heart’s long faithfulness, Even in the presence of eternal things, Wearing their chasten’d beauty all undimm’d, Assert their lofty claims; and these are not For one dark hour to cancel! We are here, Before that altar which received the vows Of our unbroken youth; and meet it is For such a witness, in the sight of heaven, And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm Comes dim between us, to record th’ exchange Of our tried hearts’ forgiveness. Who are they, That in one path have journey’d, needing not Forgiveness at its close? _A_ Citizen _enters hastily_. _Cit._ The Moors! the Moors! _Gon._ How! is the city storm’d? O righteous heaven! for this I look’d not yet! Hath all been done in vain? Why, then, ’tis time For prayer, and then to rest! _Cit._ The sun shall set, And not a Christian voice be left for prayer, To-night, within Valencia. Round our walls The Paynim host is gathering for th’ assault, I And we have none to guard them. _Gon._ Then my place Is here no longer. I had hoped to die E’en by the altar and the sepulchre Of my brave sires; but this was not to be! Give me my sword again, and lead me hence Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour, And it hath still high duties. Now, my wife! Thou mother of my children--of the dead-- Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope-- Farewell! _Elm._ No, _not_ farewell! My soul hath risen To mate itself with thine; and by thy side, Amidst the hurling lances, I will stand, As one on whom a brave man’s love hath been Wasted not utterly. _Gon._ I thank thee, heaven! That I have tasted of the awful joy Which thou hast given, to temper hours like this With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends In these dread visitings! (_To_ Elmina.) We will not part, But with the spirit’s parting. _Elm._ One farewell To her, that, mantled with sad loveliness, Doth slumber at our feet! My blessed child! Oh! in thy heart’s affliction thou wert strong, And holy courage did pervade thy woe, As light the troubled waters! Be at peace! Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul Of all that were around thee! And thy life E’en then was struck and withering at the core! Farewell! thy parting look hath on me fallen, E’en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now More like what thou hast been. My soul is hush’d; For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk And settled on its depths with that last smile Which from thine eye shone forth. Thou hast not lived In vain! My child, farewell! _Gon._ Surely for thee Death had no sting, Ximena! We are blest To learn one secret of the shadowy pass, From such an aspect’s calmness. Yet once more I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower! In token of th’ undying love and hope Whose land is far away. [_Exeunt._ [283] “La voilà, telle que la mort nous l’a faite!”--Bossuet, _Oraisons Funèbres_. Scene IX.--_The walls of the city._ Hernandez--_A few citizens gathered round him._ _Her._ Why, men have cast the treasures, which their lives Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre; Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand, Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear The flame which gave their temples and their homes In ashes to the winds! They have done this, Making a blasted void where once the sun Look’d upon lovely dwellings; and from earth Razing all record that on such a spot Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept, And frail humanity knelt before her God: They have done _this_, in their free nobleness, Rather than see the spoiler’s tread pollute Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs, Who have left man such lessons! And these things, Made your own hills their witnesses! The sky, Whose arch bends o’er you, and the seas, wherein Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb, And all memorials of man’s heart and faith, Thus proudly honour’d! Be ye not outdone By the departed! Though the godless foe Be close upon us, we have power to snatch The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong! A few bright torches and brief moments yet Shall baffle his flush’d hope; and we may die, Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me! And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate-- The ruin, not the yoke; and make thy towers A beacon unto Spain! _Cits._ We’ll follow thee! Alas! for our fair city, and the homes Wherein we rear’d our children! But away! The Moor shall plant no Crescent o’er our fanes! _Voice._ (_from a tower on the walls._) Succours!--Castile! Castile! _Cits._ (_rushing to the spot._) It is even so! Now blessing be to heaven, for we are saved! Castile! Castile! _Voice._ (_from the tower._) Line after line of spears, Lance after lance, upon th’ horizon’s verge, Like festal lights from cities bursting up, Doth skirt the plain. In faith, a noble host! _Another voice._ The Moor hath turn’d him from our walls, to front Th’ advancing might of Spain! _Cits._ (_shouting._) Castile! Castile! Gonzalez _enters, supported by_ Elmina _and a citizen_. _Gon._ What shouts of joy are these? _Her._ Hail! chieftain, hail! Thus, even in death, ’tis given thee to receive The conqueror’s crown! Behold our God hath heard, And arm’d himself with vengeance! Lo! they come! The lances of Castile! _Gon._ I knew, I knew, Thou wouldst not utterly, my God! forsake Thy servant in his need! My blood and tears Have not sunk vainly to th’ attesting earth. Praise to Thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived To see this hour! _Elm._ And I, too, bless thy name, Though thou hast proved me unto agony! O God!--thou God of chastening! _Voice._ (_from the tower._) They move on! I see the royal banner in the air, With its emblazon’d towers! _Gon._ Go, bring ye forth The banner of the Cid, and plant it here, To stream above me, for an answering sign That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place Within Valencia still! What see you now? _Her._ I see a kingdom’s might upon its path, Moving, in terrible magnificence, Unto revenge and victory! With the flash Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks, As meteors from a still and gloomy deep, And with the waving of ten thousand plumes, Like a land’s harvest in the autumn wind, And with fierce light, which is not of the sun, But flung from sheets of steel--it comes, it comes, The vengeance of our God! _Gon._ I hear it now, The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths. _Her._ Ay, earth knows well the omen of that sound; And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre’s, Pent in her secret hollows, to respond Unto the step of death! _Gon._ Hark! how the wind Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain? Now the heart feels its power! A little while Grant me to Eve, my God! What pause is this? _Her._ A deep and dreadful one! The serried files Level their spears for combat; now the hosts Look on each other in their brooding wrath, Silent, and face to face. _Voices heard without, chanting._ Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit! rest thee now! E’en while with ours thy footsteps trode His seal was on thy brow. Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high! They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die. _Elm._ (_to_ Gonzalez.) It is the death-hymn o’er thy daughter’s bier! But I am calm; and e’en like gentle winds, That music, through the stillness of my heart, Sends mournful peace. _Gon._ Oh! well those solemn tones Accord with such an hour, for all her life Breathed of a hero’s soul! [_A sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain._] _Her._ Now, now they close! Hark! what a dull dead sound Is in the Moorish war-shout! I have known Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given-- Lo! they have placed their shields before their hearts, And lower’d their lances with the streamers on, And on their steeds bent forward! God for Spain! The first bright sparks of battle have been struck From spear to spear, across the gleaming field!-- There is no sight on which the blue sky looks To match with this! ’Tis not the gallant crests, Nor banners with their glorious blazonry; The very nature and high soul of man Doth now reveal itself! _Gon._ Oh, raise me up, That I may look upon the noble scene!-- It will not be!--That this dull mist would pass A moment from my sight! Whence rose that shout, As in fierce triumph? _Her._ (_clasping his hands._) Must I look on this? The banner sinks--’tis taken! _Gon._ Whose? _Her._ Castile’s! _Gon._ O God of Battles! _Elm._ Calm thy noble heart; Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. Nay, rest thee on my bosom. _Her._ Cheer thee yet! Our knights have spurr’d to rescue. There is now A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things, Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness Wherewith they moved before! I see tall plumes All wildly tossing o’er the battle’s tide, Sway’d by the wrathful motion, and the press Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms. Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood, Many a false corslet broken, many a shield Pierced through! Now, shout for Santiago, shout! Lo! javelins with a moment’s brightness cleave The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down With their helm’d riders! Who, but One, can tell How spirits part amidst that fearful rush And trampling-on of furious multitudes? _Gon._ Thou’rt silent!--See’st thou more? My soul grows dark. _Her._ And dark and troubled, as an angry sea, Dashing some gallant armament in scorn Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze! I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross’d, And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms To lighten with the stroke! But round the spot Where, like a storm-fell’d mast, our standard sank, The heart of battle burns. _Gon._ Where is that spot?