The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Aim’d at another’s breast, would still advance--
Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by,
As if for him ’twere bliss too great to die.
Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes
Reserved for thee ere nature’s last repose;
Thou know’st not yet what vengeance fate can wreak,
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break.
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell
The sons of battle in that narrow dell;
Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass’d,
And age, the weary, found repose at last;
Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil,
Borne down by numbers and o’erpower’d by toil.
Dispersed, dishearten’d, through the pass they fly,
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high;
While Hamet’s band in wonder gaze, nor dare
Track o’er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair.
Yet he, to whom each danger hath become
A dark delight, and every wild a home,
Still urges onward--undismay’d to tread
Where life’s fond lovers would recoil with dread.
But fear is’ for the happy--_they_ may shrink
From the steep precipice or torrent’s brink;
They to whom earth is paradise--their doom
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb:
Not such his lot, who, school’d by fate severe,
Were but too blest if aught remain’d to fear.[102]
Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw
Eternal shadows o’er the glen below;
And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way,
He holds his venturous track:--supported now
By some o’erhanging pine or ilex bough;
Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell.
Now hath his footstep gain’d the summit’s head,
A level span, with emerald verdure spread,
A fairy circle--there the heath-flowers rise,
And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies;
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side:
But all is wild beyond--and Hamet’s eye
Roves o’er a world of rude sublimity.
That dell beneath, where e’en at noon of day
Earth’s charter’d guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray;
Around, untrodden woods; and far above,
Where mortal footstep ne’er may hope to rove,
Bare granite cliffs, whose fix’d, inherent dyes
Rival the tints that float o’er summer skies:[103]
And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high,
That seems a part of heaven’s eternity.
There is no track of man where Hamet stands,
Pathless the scene as Lybia’s desert sands;
Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard
Of distant voices, and the gathering-word
Of Islam’s tribes, now faint and fainter grown,
Now but the lingering echo of a tone.
That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear,
He follows, reckless if his bands are near.
On by the rushing stream his way he bends,
And through the mountain’s forest zone ascends;
Piercing the still and solitary shades
Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades,
Eternal twilight’s reign:--those mazes past,
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last,
And the lone wanderer now hath reach’d the source
Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course.
But there he pauses--for the lonely scene
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien,
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle’s cry,
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky,
So deep the solemn and majestic sound
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round--
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets
Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets.
--What earthly feeling unabash’d can dwell
In nature’s mighty presence?--midst the swell
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods,
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods?
These their own grandeur on the soul impress,
And bid each passion feel its nothingness.
Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave;
Shadow’d by giant oaks, and rude and lone,
It seems the temple of some power unknown,
Where earthly being may not dare intrude
To pierce the secrets of the solitude.
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale.
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone?
Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan?
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled,
The unforgotten accents of the dead!
E’en thus it rose--and springing from his trance
His eager footsteps to the sound advance.
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor;
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er
He rushes on--and lo! where Zayda rends
Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends,
Lost in despair;--yet, as a step draws nigh,
Disturbing sorrow’s lonely sanctity,
She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief,
Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief;
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past,
And every woe forgetting--but the last.
“Com’st thou to weep with me?--for I am left
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft.
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain’d bier;
His child may call, but he no more shall hear.
He sleeps--but never shall those eyes unclose;
’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose;
Nor can it break his slumbers.--Dost thou mourn?
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn?
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know,
That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?”
But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name,
When, swiftly rushing o’er her spirit, came
Each dark remembrance--by affliction’s power
Awhile effaced in that o’erwhelming hour,
To wake with tenfold strength: ’twas then her eye
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty,
And o’er her wasted cheek a burning glow
Spreads, while her lips’ indignant accents flow.
“Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow’s might
Bow’d down my soul, and quench’d its native light--
That I should thus forget! and bid _thy_ tear
With mine be mingled o’er a father’s bier!
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand,
In the last combat with thy ruthless band?
The morn beheld that conflict of despair:--
’Twas then he fell--he fell!--and thou wert there!
Thou! who thy country’s children hast pursued
To their last refuge midst these mountains rude.
Was it for this I loved thee?--Thou hast taught
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought!
’Twill soon be past--I bow to heaven’s decree,
Which bade each pang be minister’d by thee.”
“I had not deem’d that aught remain’d below
For me to prove of yet untasted woe;
But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart
One more, one keener agony of heart.
Oh, hear me yet!--I would have died to save
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave;
But in the fierce confusion of the strife,
In my own stern despair and scorn of life,
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught,
Save that to perish there in vain I sought.
And let me share thy sorrows!--hadst thou known
All I have felt in silence and alone,
E’en _thou_ mightst then relent, and deem, at last,
A grief like mine might expiate all the past
“But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower,
So fondly rear’d in luxury’s guarded bower,
From every danger, every storm secured,
How hast _thou_ suffer’d! what hast thou endured!
Daughter of palaces! and can it be
That this bleak desert is a home for thee!
These rocks _thy_ dwelling! thou, who shouldst have known
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone!
Oh, yet forgive!--be all my guilt forgot,
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!”
“That lot is fix’d--’twere fruitless to repine:
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine.
I may forgive--but not at will the heart
Can bid its dark remembrances depart.
No, Hamet! no!--too deeply are these traced;
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced!
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep
Her lonely vigils o’er the grave to weep.
E’en now, prophetic of my early doom,
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb;
And ne’er in vain did hopeless mourner feel
That deep foreboding o’er the bosom steal!
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side
Of him for whom I lived, and would have died;
Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot,
In pain and peril--I forsook him not.
“And now, farewell!--behold the summer-day
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away.
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh,
With the last rites his bier to sanctify.
Oh, yet in time, away!--’twere not _my_ prayer
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare!
This hour they come--and dost thou scorn to fly?
Save me that one last pang--to see thee die!”
E’en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread;
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead.
They reach the cave--they enter--slow their pace,
And calm deep sadness marks each mourner’s face;
And all is hush’d, till he who seems to wait
In silent stern devotedness his fate,
Hath met their glance--then grief to fury turns:
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns,
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath.
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death!
They close around him: lofty still his mien,
His cheek unalter’d, and his brow serene.
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda’s cry;
Fruitless her prayer, unmark’d her agony.
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend
Against the life he seeks not to defend,
Wildly she darts between--each feeling past,
Save strong affection, which prevails at last.
Oh, not in vain its daring!--for the blow
Aim’d at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow;
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast
Where in that hour her head may calmly rest,
For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band,
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand:
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o’er,
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more.
She, she alone is calm:--a fading smile,
Like sunset, passes o’er her cheek the while;
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell
Those last faint rays, the parting soul’s farewell.
“Now is the conflict past, and I have proved
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved!
Yes! in an hour like this ’twere vain to hide
The heart so long and so severely tried:
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill’d,
But sterner duties call’d--and were fulfill’d.
And I am blest!--To every holier tie
My life was faithful,--and for thee I die!
Nor shall the love so purified be vain;
Sever’d on earth, we yet shall meet again.
Farewell!--And ye, at Zayda’s dying prayer,
Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare!
Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes,
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.”
Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath.
One pang--’tis past--her task on earth is done,
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown.
But he for whom she died--oh! who may paint
The grief to which all other woes were faint?
There is no power in language to impart
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart,
By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d:
These have no words--nor are by words portray’d.
A dirge is rising on the mountain-air,