The Poems of Felicia Hemans
battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and
land. The night preceding the execution of this design, he ordered his
servants at supper to render him their best services that evening,
and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might
belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no
longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were
affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived,
he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious
victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the
dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city--a
silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day--on
a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which
resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession
seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which
led to the enemy’s camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded
that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then
forsaken him.”--Langhorne’s _Plutarch_.]
Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array,
O stately Alexandria!--yet the sound
Of mirth and music, at the close of day,
Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around
O’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall,
In gay magnificence the feast was spread;
And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall,
A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed
O’er many a column, rich with precious dyes,
That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies.
And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’d
O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene
Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d
In godlike beauty, awfully serene.
Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined
Round that luxurious board!--in every face
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind,
Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace,
Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth,
But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth.
Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom
May still survive the wearers--and the rose
Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb
Receives the mighty to its dark repose!
The day must dawn on battle, and may set
In death--but fill the mantling wine-cup high!
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet
Lend her one hour for parting revelry.
They who the empire of the world possess’d
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest.
Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien,
And read their annals on that brow of care!
Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been:
Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair.
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire
The buoyant energies of days gone by;
There is delusion in its meteor fire,
And all within is shame, is agony!
Away! the tear in bitterness may flow,
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe.
Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame,
O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow,
To that ascendant and undying name,
Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now.
Thy glory is departed, but hath left
A lingering light around thee: in decay
Not less than kingly--though of all bereft,
Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away.
Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate
A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate!
But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made
His desolation--thou art by his side,
In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d,
To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride.
Imperial being! e’en though many a stain
Of error be upon thee, there is power
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign
O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour;
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye
E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.
Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a light
Inspiring and inspired--thy cheek a dye,
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright
With the deep glow of feverish energy.
Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught
With an immortal fire--in every beam
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought,
But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream;
For thou with death hast communed to attain
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.[118]
And the stern courage by such musings lent,
Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throws
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent
With all the majesty of mighty woes:
While he, so fondly, fatally adored,
Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet,
Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar’d
Can deem the day-star of its glory set;
Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can be
In sovereign fate, o’er him thus fondly loved by thee.
But there is sadness in the eyes around,
Which mark that ruin’d leader, and survey
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound
Strange triumph chases haughtily away.
“Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries;
“Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep!
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies
Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep;
While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea,
And the red bowl again is crown’d--but not for me.
“Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er,
O victors of Philippi! many a field
Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more!
By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d.
Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject world
How royally your eagle’s wing hath spread,
Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl’d,
Now bursts the tempest on his crested head!
Yet sovereign still, if banish’d from the sky,
The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop--but die.”
The feast is o’er. ’Tis night, the dead of night--
Unbroken stillness broods o’er earth and deep;
From Egypt’s heaven of soft and starry light
The moon looks cloudless o’er a world of sleep.
For those who wait the morn’s awakening beams,
The battle-signal to decide their doom,
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;--
Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb;
Dreams dark and ominous, but _there_ to cease,
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace.
Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a sound
Of gathering tumult?--Near and nearer still
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around.
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill.
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread,
Is heard upon the midnight air to float;
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth,
Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth.
These are no mortal sounds--their thrilling strain
Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high;
And the deep horror chilling every vein
Owns them of stern terrific augury.
Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away,
O ye invisible and awful throng!
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay
To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along.
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky
By that dread sign reveals thy doom--“Despair and die!”[119]
[118] Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being
desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried
them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their
operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions;
such as were milder were slow in their effect: she therefore applied
herself to the examination of venomous creatures; and at length she
found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for
it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.--See Plutarch.
[119]
“To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!”
_Richard III._
ALARIC IN ITALY.
[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and
Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of
_The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ thus proceeds:--“Whether
fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued
that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be
quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached
the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the neighbouring
prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of
Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important
expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa.
The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and,
in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad; and the
fabulous monsters of the deep--the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool
of Charybdis--could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful
mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had
embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the
transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element;
and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric,
which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests.
The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral
of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful
applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted
the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of
Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and
trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were
then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the
remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the
inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the
work.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 329.]
Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?
His steps have track’d that glorious clime,
The birth-place of heroic time;
But he, in northern deserts bred,
Spared not the living for the dead,[120]
Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries
From temple and from tomb arise.
He pass’d--the light of burning fanes
Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains;
And woke they not--the brave, the free,
To guard their own Thermopylæ?
And left they not their silent dwelling,
When Scythia’s note of war was swelling?
No! where the bold Three Hundred slept,
Sad freedom battled not--but wept!
For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand,
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band;
Nor one high soul from slumber broke
When Athens own’d the northern yoke.
But was there none for _thee_ to dare
The conflict, scorning to despair?
O City of the seven proud hills!
Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills,
As doth a clarion’s battle-call--
Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall?
Did no Camillus from the chain
Ransom thy Capitol again?
Oh, who shall tell the days to be
No patriot rose to bleed for thee!
Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?
That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121]
Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:--