The Poems of Felicia Hemans
_Her._ It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms,
That lift their green heads o’er the tumult still,
In calm and stately grace.
_Gon._ _There_ didst thou say?
Then God is with us, and we _must_ prevail!
For on that spot they died: my children’s blood
Calls on th’ avenger thence!
_Elm._ They perish’d there!
--And the bright locks that waved so joyously
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled
Even on that place of death! O Merciful!
Hush the dark thought within me!
_Her._ (_with sudden exultation._) Who is he,
On the white steed, and with the castled helm,
And the gold-broider’d mantle, which doth float
E’en like a sunny cloud above the fight;
And the pale cross, which from his breastplate gleams
With star-like radiance?
_Gon._ (_eagerly._) Didst thou say the cross?
_Her._ On his mail’d bosom shines a broad white cross,
And his long plumage through the dark’ning air
Streams like a snow-wreath.
_Gon._ That should be--
_Her._ The king!
Was it not told to us how he sent, of late,
To the Cid’s tomb, e’en for the silver cross,
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind
O’er his brave heart in fight?[284]
_Gon._ (_springing up joyfully._) My king! my king!
Now all good saints for Spain! My noble king!
And thou art there! That I might look once more
Upon thy face! But yet I thank thee, heaven!
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands
Thus to receive his city!
[_He sinks back into_ Elmina’s _arms_.
_Her._ He hath clear’d
A pathway midst the combat, and the light
Follows his charge through yon close living mass,
E’en as a gleam on some proud vessel’s wake
Along the stormy waters! ’Tis redeem’d--
The castled banner; it is flung once more,
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds!
There seems a wavering through the Paynim hosts--
Castile doth press them sore--now, now rejoice!
_Gon._ What hast thou seen?
_Her._ Abdullah falls! He falls!
The man of blood!--the spoiler!--he hath sunk
In our king’s path! Well hath that royal sword
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez!
They give way,
The Crescent’s van is broken! On the hills,
And the dark pine-woods, may the infidel
Call vainly, in his agony of fear,
To cover him from vengeance! Lo! they fly!
They of the forest and the wilderness
Are scatter’d, e’en as leaves upon the wind!
Woe to the sons of Afric! Let the plains,
And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas,
Take their dead unto them!--that blood shall wash
Our soil from stains of bondage.
_Gon._ (_attempting to raise himself._) Set me free!
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king,
After his battle-field!
_Her._ Oh, blest in death!
Chosen of heaven, farewell! Look on the Cross,
And part from earth in peace!
_Gon._ Now, charge once more!
God is with Spain, and Santiago’s sword
Is reddening all the air! Shout forth “Castile!”
The day is ours! I go; but fear ye not!
For Afric’s lance is broken, and my sons
Have won their first good field!
[_He dies._
_Elm._ Look on me yet!
Speak one farewell, my husband!--must thy voice
Enter my soul no more! Thine eye is fix’d--
Now is my life uprooted--and ’tis well.
[_A sound of triumphant music is heard, and many Castilian
Knights and Soldiers enter._]
_A Cit._ Hush your triumphal sounds, although ye come
E’en as deliverers! But the noble dead,
And those that mourn them, claim from human hearts
Deep silent reverence.
_Elm._ (_rising proudly._) No, swell forth, Castile!
Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens,
And the deep hills, give every stormy note
Echoes to ring through Spain! How, know ye not
That all array’d for triumph, crown’d and robed
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land,
E’en now a conqueror to his rest is gone?
Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind
Swell on with victory’s shout!--_He_ will not hear--
Hath earth a sound more sad?
_Her._ Lift ye the dead,
And bear him with the banner of his race
Waving above him proudly, as it waved
O’er the Cid’s battles, to the tomb wherein
His warrior sires are gather’d. [_They raise the body._
Elm. Ay, ’tis thus
Thou shouldst be honour’d! And I follow thee,
With an unfaltering and a lofty step,
To that last home of glory. She that wears
In her deep heart the memory of thy love,
Shall thence draw strength for all things; till the God
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth,
Looking upon her still and chasten’d soul,
Call it once more to thine!
(_To the Castilians._) Awake, I say!
Tambour and trumpet, wake! And let the land
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal.
--So should a hero pass to his repose.
[_Exeunt omnes._
[284] This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the last of
that name. He sent to the Cid’s tomb for the cross which that warrior
was accustomed to wear upon his breast when he went to battle, and had
it made into one for himself, “because of the faith which he had, that
through it he should obtain the victory.”--Southey’s _Chronicle of the
Cid_.
[CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON THE “SIEGE OF VALENCIA.”
“Of ‘The Siege of Valencia’ we say little, for we by no means consider
it as the happiest of Mrs Hemans’s efforts. Not that it does not
contain, nay, abound with fine passages; but the whole wants vigour,
coherence, and compression. The story is meagre, and the dialogue
too diffuse.”--_The_ Rev. Dr Morehead _in Constable’s Magazine for
September 1823_.
“The ‘Tales and Historic Scenes,’ ‘The Sceptic,’ ‘The Welsh Melodies,’
‘The Siege of Valencia,’ and ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’” says Delta,
“may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career, and are
characterised by beauties of a high and peculiar stamp. With reference
to the two latter, it must be owned, that if the genius of Mrs Hemans
was not essentially dramatic, yet that both abound with high and
magnificent bursts of poetry. It was not easy to adapt her fine taste
and uniformly high-toned sentiment to the varied aspects of life and
character necessary to the success of scenic exhibition; and she must
have been aware of the difficulties that surrounded her in that path.
If these cannot, therefore, be considered as successful tragedies,
they hold their places as dramatic poems of rich and rare poetic
beauty. Indeed, it would be difficult, from the whole range of Mrs
Hemans’s writings, to select any thing more exquisitely conceived,
more skilfully managed, or more energetically written, than the
Monk’s tale in ‘The Siege of Valencia.’ The description of his son,
in which he dwells with parental enthusiasm on his boyish beauty and
accomplishments--of his horror at that son’s renunciation of the
Christian faith, and leaguing with the infidel--and of the twilight
encounter, in which he took the life of his own giving--are all worked
out in the loftiest spirit of poetry.”--_Biographical Memoir_, p.
16-17.
“‘The Siege of Valencia,’ ‘The Last Constantine,’ and other poems,
were published in the course of the year 1823. This volume was marked
by more distinct evidences of originality than any of Mrs Hemans’s
previous works. None of her after poems contain finer bursts of
strong, fervid, indignant poetry than ‘The Siege of Valencia;’ its
story--a thrilling conflict between maternal love and the inflexible
spirit of chivalrous honour--afforded to her an admirable opportunity
of giving utterance to the two master interests of her mind. It is a
tale that will bear a second reading--though, it must be confessed
that, as in the case of ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ somewhat of a
monotony of colouring is thrown over its scenes by the unchanged
employment of a lofty and enriched phraseology, which would have
gained in emphasis by its being more sparingly used. Ximena, too,
all glowing and heroic as she is, stirring up the sinking hearts of
the besieged citizens with her battle-song of the Cid, and dying as
it were of that strain of triumph--is too spiritual, too saintly,
wholly to carry away the sympathies. Our imagination is kindled by her
splendid, high-toned devotion--our tears are called forth by the grief
of her mother, the stately Elmina, broken down, but not degraded,
by the agony of maternal affection, to connive at a treachery she
is too noble wholly to carry through. The scenes with her husband
are admirable; some of her speeches absolutely startle us with their
passion and intensity--the following, for instance:--
‘Love! love! there are soft smiles and gentle words,’” etc.
--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 110-12.
“‘The Siege of Valencia’ is a dramatic poem, but not intended for
representation. The story is extremely simple. The Moors, who besiege
Valencia, take the two sons of the governor, Gonzalez, captive, as
they come to visit their father, and now the ransom demanded for them
is the surrender of the city: they are to die if the place is not
yielded up. Elmina, the mother of the boys, and Ximena, their sister,
are the remaining members of a family to which so dreadful an option
is submitted. The poem is one of the highest merit. The subject is of
great dignity, being connected with the defence of Spain against the
Moors; and at the same time it is of the greatest tenderness, offering
a succession of the most moving scenes that can be imagined to occur
in the bosom of a family. The father is firm, the daughter is heroic,
the mother falters. She finds her way to the Moorish camp, sees her
children, forms her plan for betraying the town, and then is not able
to conceal her grief and her design from her husband. He immediately
sends a defiance to the Moors, his children are brought out and
beheaded, a sortie is made from the besieged city: finally, the king
of Spain arrives to the rescue; the wrongs of Gonzalez are avenged;
he himself dies in victory; and the poem closes with a picture of
his wife, moved by the strongest grief, of which she is yet able to
restrain the expression. The great excellence of the poem lies in the
description of the struggle between the consciousness of duty and
maternal fondness. We believe none but a mother could have written
it.”--Professor Norton, in _North American Review_ for April 1827.
“The graceful powers of Mrs Hemans in the same walk which had been
trodden so grandly by Miss Baillie, were manifested in her ‘Vespers
of Palermo’, and her ‘Siege of Valencia.’ The latter is a noble
work, and as a poem ranks with her highest productions, though it is
filled too uniformly perhaps with the spirit of her own mind, to be
very distinctively dramatic. It has indeed variety, but less of the
variety of human nature, than of a godlike and exalted nature, which
belongs to few among mankind, and to them, perhaps, only in strange
and terrible crises. The steadfastness of the paternal chieftain, the
sterner enthusiasm of the priest, the mother’s maddening affection,
and the gentle heroism of the melancholy Ximena are drawn with
individuality, but it is the individuality of a common greatness, the
apparent appropriation to many of an essence really the same in all.
In her own heart the poetess found this pure essence; and when she