The Poems of Felicia Hemans
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse.
To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene;
Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies;
Thou still art faithful to affection’s ties.
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn,
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem;
And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice.
Within Granada’s walls are hearts and hands
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands;
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour,
To win his silent way to Zayda’s bower,
When night and peace are brooding o’er the world,
When mute the clarions, and the banners furl’d.
That hour is come--and, o’er the arms he bears,
A wandering fakir’s garb the chieftain wears:
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride;
But night befriends--through paths obscure he pass’d,
And hail’d the lone and lovely scene at last;
Young Zayda’s chosen haunt, the fair alcove,
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove:
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat,
As form’d alone for happy hearts to meet.
For happy hearts!--not such as hers, who there
Bends o’er her lute with dark unbraided hair;
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien,
Tell that despair her bosom’s guest hath been.
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior’s feet
Unheard approach her solitary seat,
Till his known accents every sense restore--
“My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?”
She starts, she turns--the lightning of surprise,
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes;
But that is fleeting--it is past--and how
Far other meaning darkens o’er her brow:
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe--
“Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!”
“Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own?
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone?
I will not deem thee changed--but in thy face,
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace!
It was not thus in other days we met:
Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget?
Oh! speak once more--these rising doubts dispel:
One smile of tenderness, and all is well!”
“Not thus we met in other days!--oh, no!
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe!
Those days are past--we ne’er shall meet again
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then.
But _thy_ dark soul no gentler feelings sway,
Leader of hostile bands! away, away!
On in thy path of triumph and of power,
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower.”
“And _thou_, too, changed! thine earthly vow forgot!
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot!
Exiled and scorn’d, of every tie bereft,
Thy love, the desert’s lonely fount, was left;
And thou, my soul’s last hope, its lingering beam,
Thou! the good angel of each brighter dream,
Wert all the barrenness of life possest
To wake one soft affection in my breast!
That vision ended--fate hath nought in store
Of joy or sorrow e’er to touch me more.
Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly,
From the stem pupil of adversity!
And now to hope, to confidence, adieu!
If thou art faithless, who shall e’er be true?”
“Hamet! oh, wrong me not!--I too could speak
Of sorrows--trace them on my faded cheek,
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form,
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm!
But words were idle--read my sufferings there,
Where grief is stamp’d on all that once was fair.
“Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,
All that thy mien express’d, thy spirit seem’d,
My love had been devotion!--till in death
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath.
But not the chief who leads a lawless band
To crush the altars of his native land;
Th’ apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace
Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race;
Not _him_ I loved--but one whose youthful name
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame.
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud
O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud,
I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief
In its own loftiness had found relief;
A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last,
When every meaner woe had long been past.
Yes! let affection weep--no common tear
She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier.
Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this,
To pangs that rend _my_ bosom, had been bliss!”
“High-minded maid! the time admits not now
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow.
That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall,
Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall.
Yet this believe--no meaner aim inspires
My soul, no dream of power ambition fires.
No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled,
Behold me but th’ avenger of the dead!
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows,
And in thy love alone hath sought repose.
Zayda! wilt _thou_ his stern accuser be?
False to his country, he is true to thee!
Oh, hear me yet!--if Hamet e’er was dear,
By our first vows, our young affection, hear!
Soon must this fair and royal city fall,
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall;
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow,
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe?
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far
From horrors thronging in the path of war:
Fly, and repose in safety--till the blast
Hath made a desert in its course--and pass’d!”
“Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come
Hasten’d by thee, to seal thy country’s doom,
With _thee_ from scenes of death shall Zayda fly
To peace and safety?--Woman, too, can die!
And die exulting, though unknown to fame,
In all the stainless beauty of her name!
Be mine, unmurmuring, undismay’d, to share
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear.
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail,
When the clouds gather and the blasts assail.
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour
Call’d into life my spirit’s latent power;
But I have energies that idly slept,
While withering o’er my silent woes I wept;
And now, when hope and happiness are fled,
My soul is firm--for what remains to dread?
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear
If strength and courage dwell not with Despair?
“Hamet! farewell--retrace thy path again,
To join thy brethren on the tented plain.
There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell!
Yes! on that soil hath Glory’s footstep been,
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene!
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there,
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air?
Unheard, in vain they call--their fallen son
Hath stain’d the name those mighty spirits won,
And to the hatred of the brave and free
Bequeath’d his own through ages yet to be!”
Still as she spoke, th’ enthusiast’s kindling eye
Was lighted up with inborn majesty,
While her fair form and youthful features caught
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought,
Severely beauteous.[78] Awe-struck and amazed,
In silent trance a while the warrior gazed,
As on some lofty vision--for she seem’d
One all-inspired--each look with glory beam’d,
While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes,
Her soul at once in all its light arose.
Oh! ne’er had Hamet deem’d there dwelt enshrined
In form so fragile that unconquer’d mind;
And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there
He stood--till wonder yielded to despair.
“The dream is vanish’d--daughter of my foes!
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes.
Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not
Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot!
Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid!
In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d,
Farewell, and be thou blest!--all words were vain
From him who ne’er may view that form again--
Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be,
He _hath_ been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!”
And is the warrior gone?--doth Zayda hear
His parting footstep, and without a tear?
Thou weep’st not, lofty maid!--yet who can tell
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell?
_They_ feel not least, the firm, the high in soul,
Who best each feeling’s agony control.
Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief
Which finds in misery’s eloquence relief;
But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow?
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved,
Scorning itself that thus it _could_ be moved?
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows,
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes;
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn,
Beholding anguish--all unknown to them.
Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes
And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains,
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies;
While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave,
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave:
Mourn, for thy doom is fixed--the days of fear,
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near!
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves
Of kings and chiefs--their children shall be slaves.
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell,
But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell;
For midst thy councils discord still presides,
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides--
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown
Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne,
Without one generous thought, or feeling high,
To teach his soul how kings should live and die.
A voice resounds within Granada’s wall,
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.[80]
Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught
To reach the source of pure exalted thought?
See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand,
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand!
His mien is all impassion’d, and his eye
Fill’d with a light whose fountain is on high;
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow,
And inspiration beams upon his brow;
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze,
As on some mighty seer of elder days.
“Saw ye the banners of Castile display’d,
The helmets glittering, and the line array’d?
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?” he cries;
“Children of conquerors! in your strength arise!
O high-born tribes! O names unstain’d by fear!
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear![81]
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.[82]
Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come,
And the red sabre must decide your doom.
Where is that spirit which prevail’d of yore,
When Tarik’s bands o’erspread the western shore?[83]
When the long combat raged on Xeres’ plain,[84]
And Afric’s tecbir swell’d through yielding Spain?[85]
Is the lance broken, is the shield decay’d,
The warrior’s arm unstrung, his heart dismay’d?
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth?
To guard the regions where our fathers’ blood
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood;
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil?