The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Th’ ethereal music of a dream, A spirit’s voice from worlds unknown, Deep thrilling power in every tone! Sweet is that lay! and yet its flow Hath language only given to woe; And if at times its wakening swell Some tale of glory seems to tell, Soon the proud notes of triumph die, Lost in a dirge’s harmony. Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved, Hath deeply suffer’d, fondly loved, Ere the sad strain could catch from thence Such deep impassion’d eloquence! Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy-- He is no child of hope and joy! Though few his years, yet have they been Such as leave traces on the mien, And o’er the roses of our prime Breathe other blights than those of time. Yet seems his spirit wild and proud, By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d. Oh! there are sorrows which impart A sternness foreign to the heart, And, rushing with an earthquake’s power, That makes a desert in an hour, Rouse the dread passions in their course, As tempests wake the billows’ force!-- ’Tis sad, on youthful Guido’s face, The stamp of woes like these to trace. Oh! where can ruins awe mankind Dark as the ruins of the mind? His mien is lofty, but his gaze Too well a wandering soul betrays: His full dark eye at times is bright With strange and momentary light, Whose quick uncertain flashes throw O’er his pale cheek a hectic glow: And oft his features and his air A shade of troubled mystery wear, A glance of hurried wildness, fraught With some unfathomable thought. Whate’er that thought, still unexpress’d Dwells the sad secret in his breast; The pride his haughty brow reveals All other passion well conceals-- He breathes each wounded feeling’s tone In music’s eloquence alone; His soul’s deep voice is only pour’d Through his full song and swelling chord. He seeks no friend, but shuns the train Of courtiers with a proud disdain; And, save when Otho bids his lay Its half unearthly power essay In hall or bower the heart to thrill, His haunts are wild and lonely still. Far distant from the heedless throng, He roves old Tiber’s banks along, Where Empire’s desolate remains Lie scatter’d o’er the silent plains; Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrine That strews the desert Palatine, With mournful yet commanding mien, Like the sad genius of the scene, Entranced in awful thought appears To commune with departed years. Or at the dead of night, when Rome Seems of heroic shades the home; When Tiber’s murmuring voice recalls The mighty to their ancient halls; When hush’d is every meaner sound, And the deep moonlight-calm around Leaves to the solemn scene alone The majesty of ages flown-- A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb, He wanders through the sacred gloom; And midst those dwellings of decay At times will breathe so sad a lay, So wild a grandeur in each tone, ’Tis like a dirge for empires gone! Awake thy pealing harp again, But breathe a more exulting strain, Young Guido! for awhile forgot Be the dark secrets of thy lot, And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song To speed the banquet’s hour along!-- The feast is spread, and music’s call Is echoing through the royal hall, And banners wave and trophies shine O’er stately guests in glittering line; And Otho seeks awhile to chase The thoughts he never can erase, And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep Rise like a spirit on his sleep-- The still small voice of conscience--die, Lost in the din of revelry. On his pale brow dejection lowers, But that shall yield to festal hours; A gloom is in his faded eye, But that from music’s power shall fly; His wasted cheek is wan with care, But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high, Strike the bold chord exultingly! And pour upon the enraptured ear Such strains as warriors love to hear! Let the rich mantling goblet flow, And banish aught resembling woe; And if a thought intrude, of power To mar the bright convivial hour, Still must its influence lurk unseen, And cloud the heart--but not the mien! Away, vain dream!--on Otho’s brow, Still darker lower the shadows now; Changed are his features, now o’erspread With the cold paleness of the dead; Now crimson’d with a hectic dye, The burning flush of agony! His lip is quivering, and his breast Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d; Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed, And now to heaven in anguish raised; And as, with unavailing aid, Around him throng his guests dismay’d, He sinks--while scarce his struggling breath Hath power to falter--“This is death!” Then rush’d that haughty child of song, Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. Fill’d with a strange delirious light, His kindling eye shone wildly bright; And on the sufferer’s mien awhile Gazing with stem vindictive smile, A feverish glow of triumph dyed His burning cheek, while thus he cried:-- “Yes! these are death-pangs--on thy brow Is set the seal of vengeance now! Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught, And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d; And bitter as thy pangs may be, They are but guerdons meet from me! Yet these are but a moment’s throes-- Howe’er intense, they soon shall close. Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath-- _My_ life hath been a lingering death, Since one dark hour of woe and crime, A blood-spot on the page of time! “Deem’st thou my mind of reason void? It is not frenzied--but destroy’d! Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought-- That work of ruin thou hast wrought! The secret of thy doom to tell, My name alone suffices well! Stephania!--once a hero’s bride! Otho! thou know’st the rest--_he died_. Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word, The Roman fell, untried, unheard! And thou, whose every pledge was vain, How couldst _thou_ trust in aught again? “He died, and I was changed--my soul, A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control. From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d, The outcast of a purer world, I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown, And lived for one dread task alone. The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow-- The hand of death is on thee now. Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d, The debt of blood shall soon be paid! Thine hour is come--the time hath been My heart had shrunk from such a scene; _That_ feeling long is past--my fate Hath made me stern as desolate. “Ye that around me shuddering stand, Ye chiefs and princes of the land! Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom? Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb! _He_ sleeps unhonour’d--yet be mine To share his low, neglected shrine. His soul with freedom finds a home, His grave is that of glory--Rome! Are not the great of old with her, That city of the sepulchre? Lead me to death! and let me share, The slumbers of the mighty there!” The day departs--that fearful day Fades in calm loveliness away: From purple heavens its lingering beam Seems melting into Tiber’s stream, And softly tints each Roman hill With glowing light, as clear and still As if, unstain’d by crime or woe, Its hours had pass’d in silent flow. The day sets calmly--it hath been Mark’d with a strange and awful scene: One guilty bosom throbs no more, And Otho’s pangs and life are o’er. And thou, ere yet another sun His burning race hath brightly run, Released from anguish by thy foes, Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose. Yes! on thy country’s lovely sky Fix yet once more thy parting eye! A few short hours--and all shall be The silent and the past for thee. Oh! thus with tempests of a day We struggle, and we pass away, Like the wild billows as they sweep, Leaving no vestige on the deep! And o’er thy dark and lowly bed The sons of future days shall tread, The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, By them unknown, by thee forgot. [114] “As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circæum with a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately to sail from thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes in Cæsar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made again for the sea. He passed the night in the most perplexing and horrid thoughts; insomuch, that he was sometimes inclined to go privately into Cæsar’s house, and stab himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat in the summer, when the Etesian winds set in. There was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from which a flight of crows came with great noise towards Cicero’s vessel as it was making land. They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. All looked upon this as an ill omen; yet Cicero went on shore, and, entering his house, lay down to repose himself. In the meantime a number of the crows settled in the chamber-window, and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted with its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had covered his face. On sight of this, the servants began to reproach themselves. ‘Shall we,’ said they, ‘remain to be spectators of our master’s murder? Shall we not protect him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention?’ Then, partly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into his litter, and carried him towards the sea.”--Plutarch, _Life of Cicero_. [115] “Now purer air Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All sadness but despair.”--Milton. [116] Mount Gargano. “This ridge of mountains forms a very large promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. We took a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady dells and noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of Garganus: ‘Aquilonibus Querceta Gargani laborant, Et foliis viduantur orni.’--Horace. “There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vegetation.”--Swinburne’s _Travels_. [117] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found in original page 90 footnote 3. “In yonder nether world where shall I seek His bright appearances, or footstep trace?”--Milton. THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. [“Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in