The Poems of Felicia Hemans

That numbs each human pulse? They saw, and thought it well. XX. And I, too, thought it well! That very morn From a far land I came, yet round me clung The spirit of my own. No hand had torn With a strong grasp away the veil which hung Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe I watch’d the fearful rites; and if there sprung One rebel feeling from its deep founts up, Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt’s own poison-cup. XXI. But I was waken’d as the dreamers waken, Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken, And they must battle till their blood is shed On their own threshold floor. A path for light Through my torn breast was shatter’d by the might Of the swift thunder-stroke; and freedom’s tread Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain, Making the blighted place all green with life again. XXII. Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass Of cloud o’ersweeping, without wind, the sky, Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass, And mark’d its victims with a tearless eye. They moved before me but as pictures, wrought Each to reveal some secret of man’s thought, On the sharp edge of sad mortality; Till in his place came one--oh! could it be? My friend, my heart’s first friend!--and did I gaze on thee! XXIII. On thee! with whom in boyhood I had play’d, At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams; And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid Bare, as to heaven’s, its glowing world of dreams; And by whose side midst warriors I had stood, And in whose helm was brought--oh, earn’d with blood!-- The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams Smote on my fever’d brow! Ay, years had pass’d, Severing our paths, brave friend!--and _thus_ we met at last! XXIV. I see it still--the lofty mien thou borest! On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power-- The very look that once thou brightly worest, Cheering me onward through a fearful hour, When we were girt by Indian bow and spear, Midst the white Andes--even as mountain deer, Hemm’d in our camp; but through the javelin shower We rent our way, a tempest of despair! And thou--hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there! XXV. I call the fond wish back--for thou hast perish’d More nobly far, my Alvar!--making known The might of truth;[291] and be thy memory cherish’d With theirs, the thousands that around her throne Have pour’d their lives out smiling, in that doom Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb! Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, And with the wind their spirit shall be spread, Filling man’s heart and home with records of the dead. XXVI. Thou Searcher of the soul! in whose dread sight Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies, But the scarce-own’d unwhisper’d thought of night, As a thing written with the sunbeam lies; _Thou_ know’st--whose eye through shade and depth can see, That this man’s crime was but to worship thee, Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, The call’d of yore--wont by the Saviour’s side On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide. XXVII. For the strong spirit will at times awake, Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode; And, born of thee, she may not always take Earth’s accents for the oracles of God; And even for this--O dust, whose mask is power! Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour! Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, And therefore thou destroyest!--where were flown Our hopes, if man were left to man’s decree alone! XXVIII. But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw A sudden freshness back on vanish’d days, Like water-drops on some dim picture’s hue; Calling the proud time up, when first I stood Where banners floated, and my heart’s quick blood Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew, And he--his sword was like a brother’s worn, That watches through the field his mother’s youngest born. XXIX. But a lance met me in that day’s career-- Senseless I lay amidst the o’ersweeping fight; Wakening at last, how full, how strangely clear, That scene on memory flash’d!--the shivery light, Moonlight, on broken shields--the plain of slaughter, The fountain-side, the low sweet sound of water-- And Alvar bending o’er me--from the night Covering me with his mantle. All the past Flow’d back; my soul’s far chords all answer’d to the blast. XXX. Till, in that rush of visions, I became As one that, by the bands of slumber wound, Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame, Intense in consciousness of sight and sound, Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things! Troubled even thus I stood, but chain’d and bound On that familiar form mine eye to keep: Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep! XXXI. He pass’d me--and what next? I look’d on two, Following his footsteps to the same dread place, For the same guilt--his sisters![292] Well I knew The beauty on those brows, though each young face Was changed--so deeply changed!--a dungeon’s air Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear. And ye, O daughters of a lofty race, Queen-like Theresa! radiant Inez!--flowers So cherish’d! were ye then but rear’d for those dark hours? XXXII. A mournful home, young sisters, had ye left! With your lutes hanging hush’d upon the wall, And silence round the aged man, bereft Of each glad voice once answering to his call. Alas, that lonely father! doom’d to pine For sounds departed in his life’s decline; And, midst the shadowing banners of his hall, With his white hair to sit, and deem the name A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame![293] XXXIII. And woe for you, midst looks and words of love, And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long! How had I seen you in your beauty move, Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song!-- Yet sat, even then, what seem’d the crowd to shun, Half-veil’d upon the pale clear brow of one, And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong-- Thoughts, such as wake to evening’s whispery sway, Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay. XXXIV. And if she mingled with the festive train, It was but as some melancholy star Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, In its bright stillness present, though afar. Yet would she smile--and that, too, hath its smile-- Circled with joy which reach’d her not the while, And bearing a lone spirit, not at war With earthly things, but o’er their form and hue Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true. XXXV. But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul, A treasure all undreamt of,--as the night Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll Unheard by day. It seem’d as if her breast Had hoarded energies, till then suppress’d Almost with pain, and bursting from control, And finding first that hour their pathway free: Could a rose brave the storm, such might her emblem be! XXXVI. For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, Was fled; and fire, like prophecy’s, had sprung Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn-- Pride--sense of wrong; ay, the frail heart is bound By these at times, even as with adamant round, Kept so from breaking! Yet not _thus_ upborne She moved, though some sustaining passion’s wave Lifted her fervent soul--a sister for the brave! XXXVII. And yet, alas! to see the strength which clings Round woman in such hours!--a mournful sight, Though lovely!--an o’erflowing of the springs, The full springs of affection, deep as bright! And she, because her life is ever twined With other lives, and by no stormy wind May thence be shaken, and because the light Of tenderness is round her, and her eye Doth weep such passionate tears--therefore she thus can die. XXXVIII. Therefore didst _thou_, through that heart-shaking scene, As through a triumph move; and cast aside Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory’s mien, O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide, And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth, Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth, Where thy glad soul from earth was purified; Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the past, That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last. XXXIX. For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest, Midst thy young spirit’s dreams, than that which grows Between the nurtured of the same fond breast, The shelter’d of one roof; and thus it rose Twined in with life. How is it that the hours Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers Round the same tree, the sharing one repose, And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft, From the heart’s memory fade in this world’s breath so oft? XL. But thee that breath hath touch’d not; thee, nor him, The true in all things found!--and thou wert blest Even then, that no remember’d change could dim The perfect image of affection, press’d Like armour to thy bosom! Thou hadst kept Watch by thy brother’s couch of pain, and wept, Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith Unto thy soul; one light, one hope ye chose----one death. XLI. So didst thou pass on brightly!--but for her, Next in that path, how may _her_ doom be spoken! All Merciful! to think that such things were, And _are_, and seen by men with hearts unbroken! To think of that fair girl, whose path had been So strew’d with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene! And whose quick glance came ever as a token Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice As a free bird’s in spring, that makes the woods rejoice! XLII. And she to die!--she loved the laughing earth With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers! Was not her smile even as the sudden birth Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers? Yes! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear, Which oft, unconsciously, in happier hours Flow’d from her lips, was to forget the sway Of Time and Death below, blight, shadow, dull decay! XLIII. Could this change be? The hour, the scene, where last I saw that form, came floating o’er my mind: A golden vintage-eve; the heats were pass’d, And, in the freshness of the fanning wind, Her father sat where gleam’d the first faint star Through the lime-boughs; and with her light guitar, She, on the greensward at his feet reclined, In his calm face laugh’d up; some shepherd lay Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play. XLIV. And now--oh, God!--the bitter fear of death, The sore amaze, the faint o’ershadowing dread, Had grasp’d her!--panting in her quick-drawn breath, And in her white lips quivering. Onward led, She look’d up with her dim bewilder’d eyes, And there smiled out her own soft brilliant skies,