The Poems of Felicia Hemans

How woke the mighty? She whose will So long had bid the world be still, Her sword a sceptre, and her eye Th’ ascendant star of destiny! She woke--to view the dread array Of Scythians rushing to their prey, To hear her streets resound the cries Pour’d from a thousand agonies! While the strange light of flames, that gave A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave, Bursting in that terrific hour From fane and palace, dome and tower, Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine, Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine: Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed O’er spear and sword, with carnage red, Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying, And kindled pyres for Romans dying. Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er Should tears alone thy wrongs declare! The time hath been when _thy_ distress Had roused up empires for redress! Now, her long race of glory run, Without a combat Rome is won, And from her plunder’d temples forth Rush the fierce children of the North, To share beneath more genial skies Each joy their own rude clime denies. Ye who on bright Campania’s shore Bade your fair villas rise of yore, With all their graceful colonnades, And crystal baths, and myrtle shades, Along the blue Hesperian deep, Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep-- Beneath your olive and your vine Far other inmates now recline; And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed With rich libations duly shed,[122] O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends, Its bowery canopy extends. For them the southern heaven is glowing, The bright Falernian nectar flowing; For them the marble halls unfold, Where nobler beings dwelt of old, Whose children for barbarian lords Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords. Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. Yet, though luxurious they repose Beneath Corinthian porticoes-- While round them into being start The marvels of triumphant art-- Oh! not for them hath Genius given To Parian stone the fire of heaven, Enshrining in the forms he wrought A bright eternity of thought. In vain the natives of the skies In breathing marble round them rise, And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade People the dark-green laurel shade. Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye To visions of divinity; And rude his hand which dares deface The models of immortal grace. Arouse ye from your soft delights! Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites; And other lands must yet be won, And other deeds of havoc done. Warriors! your flowery bondage break, Sons of the stormy North, awake! The barks are launching from the steep-- Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123] And Afric’s burning winds afar Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war. Where shall his race of victory close? When shall the ravaged earth repose? But hark! what wildly mingling cries From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise? Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air? A sterner conquerer hath been there! A conqueror--yet his paths are peace, He comes to bring the world’s release; He of the sword that knows no sheath, The avenger, the deliverer--Death! Is then that daring spirit fled? Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength, And he and earth are calm at length. The land where heaven unclouded shines, Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; The land by conquest made his own, Can yield him now--a grave alone. But his--her lord from Alp to sea-- No common sepulchre shall be! Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye Its buried wealth may ne’er descry! Where mortal foot may never tread Above a victor-monarch’s bed. Let not his royal dust be hid ’Neath star-aspiring pyramid; Nor bid the gather’d mound arise, To bear his memory to the skies. Years roll away--oblivion claims Her triumph o’er heroic names; And hands profane disturb the clay That once was fired with glory’s ray; And Avarice, from their secret gloom, Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb. But thou, O leader of the free! That general doom awaits not thee: Thou, where no step may e’er intrude, Shalt rest in regal solitude, Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, The Awakener’s final trumpet sound. Turn ye the waters from their course, Bid Nature yield to human force, And hollow in the torrent’s bed A chamber for the mighty dead. The work is done--the captive’s hand Hath well obey’d his lord’s command. Within that royal tomb are cast The richest trophies of the past, The wealth of many a stately dome, The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome; And when the midnight stars are beaming, And ocean waves in stillness gleaming, Stern in their grief, his warriors bear The Chastener of the Nations there; To rest at length from victory’s toil, Alone, with all an empire’s spoil! Then the freed current’s rushing wave Rolls o’er the secret of the grave; Then streams the martyr’d captives’ blood To crimson that sepulchral flood, Whose conscious tide alone shall keep The mystery in its bosom deep. Time hath past on since then--and swept From earth the urns where heroes slept; Temples of gods and domes of kings Are mouldering with forgotten things; Yet not shall ages e’er molest The viewless home of Alaric’s rest: Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river, The guardian of his dust for ever. [120] After the taking of Athens by Sylla, “though such numbers were put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking country. What reduced the best men among them to this despair of finding any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the well-known cruelty of Sylla: yet, partly by the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who threw themselves at his feet--partly by the entreaties of the senators who attended him in that expedition, and being himself satiated with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his hand; and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, ‘he forgave the many for the sake of the few, the _living for the dead_.’”--Plutarch. [121] “At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had subdued and civilised so considerable a portion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 311. [122] The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on account of its extraordinary shade; and they used to nourish it with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that “this tree loved that liquor as well as those who used to drink it under its shade.”--See the notes to Melmoth’s _Pliny_. [123] Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and peculiar dominion of Ceres. THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. [“This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive Carthage--this fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the conqueror’s feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the first: there the proconsul attacked them; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building: there Asdrubal’s wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus,--‘Base coward!’ said she, ‘the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.’ Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after them into the flames.”--_Ancient Universal History._] The sun sets brightly--but a ruddier glow O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw. Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire In lurid splendour from her domes aspire; Sway’d by the wind, they wave--while glares the sky As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh; The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams-- Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams; While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes; And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124] --But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, All regal in magnificent attire, And sternly beauteous in terrific ire? She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour Of dread communion and delirious power; A being more than earthly, in whose eye There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. The flames are gathering round--intensely bright, Full on her features glares their meteor light; But a wild courage sits triumphant there, The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; A daring spirit, in its woes elate, Mightier than death, untameable by fate. The dark profusion of her locks unbound Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round; Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien-- She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. Are those _her_ infants, that with suppliant cry Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh, Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, And fain would rush for shelter to her breast? Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain, And passion, awfully vindictive, reign? Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands; On him who left her to that burning tomb, Alone to share her children’s martyrdom; Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife, And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. “Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee, E’en in thy fetters, can existence be! Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!--with blasted name, The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame. O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain! Still may the manès of thy children rise To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes; Still may their voices on the haunted air In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume, Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb! E’en now my sons shall die--and thou, their sire,