The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Detain’d a moment from on high!
One to sublimer worlds allied,
One from all passion purified,
E’en now half mingled with the sky,
And all prepared--oh! not to die--
But, like the prophet, to aspire,
In heaven’s triumphal car of fire.
He speaks--and from the throngs around
Is heard not e’en a whisper’d sound;
Awe-struck each heart, and fix’d each glance,
They stand as in a spell-bound trance:
He speaks--oh! who can hear nor own
The might of each prevailing tone?
“Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong,
Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate
Hath made your country desolate;
Now by the love ye bear her name,
By that pure spark of holy flame
On freedom’s altar brightly burning,
But, once extinguished, ne’er returning;
By all your hopes of bliss to come
When burst the bondage of the tomb;
By Him, the God who bade us live
To aid each other, and forgive--
I call upon ye to resign
Your discords at your country’s shrine,
Each ancient feud in peace atone,
Wield your keen swords for her alone,
And swear upon the cross, to cast
Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!”
No voice replies. The holy bands
Advance to where yon chieftain stands,
With folded arms, and brow of gloom
O’ershadow’d by his floating plume.
To him they lift the cross--in vain:
He turns--oh! say not with disdain,
But with a mien of haughty grief,
That seeks not e’en from heaven relief.
He rends his robes--he sternly speaks--
Yet tears are on the warrior’s checks:--
“Father! not thus the wounds may close
Inflicted by eternal foes.
Deem’st thou _thy_ mandate can efface
The dread volcano’s burning trace?
Or bid the earthquake’s ravaged scene
Be smiling as it once hath been?
No! for the deeds the sword hath done
Forgiveness is not lightly won;
The words by hatred spoke may not
Be as a summer breeze forgot!
’Tis vain--we deem the war-feud’s rage
A portion of our heritage.
Leaders, now slumbering with their fame,
Bequeath’d us that undying flame;
Hearts that have long been still and cold
Yet rule us from their silent mould;
And voices, heard on earth no more,
Speak to our spirits as of yore.
Talk not of mercy!--blood alone
The stain of bloodshed may atone;
Nought else can pay that mighty debt,
The dead forbid us to forget.”
He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow
There beams more lofty grandeur now;
His reverend form, his aged hand,
Assume a gesture of command;
His voice is awful, and his eye
Fill’d with prophetic majesty.
“The dead!--and deem’st thou _they_ retain
Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain?
Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by,
Aught but the fearful penalty?
And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone
For deeds of slaughter may atone?
There _hath_ been blood--by Him ’twas shed
To expiate every crime who bled;
Th’ absolving God, who died to save,
And rose in victory from the grave!
And by that stainless offering given
Alike for all on earth to heaven;
By that inevitable hour
When death shall vanquish pride and power,
And each departing passion’s force
Concentrate all in late remorse;
And by the day when doom shall be
Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee--
The doom that shall not be repeal’d,
Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d--
I summon thee, O child of clay!
To cast thy darker thoughts away,
And meet thy foes in peace and love,
As thou wouldst join the blest above.”
Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling
Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing.
Oh, not in vain the pleading cries
Of anxious thousands round him rise!
He yields: devotion’s mingled sense
Of faith, and fear, and penitence,
Pervading all his soul, he bows
To offer on the cross his vows,
And that best incense to the skies,
Each evil passion’s sacrifice.
Then tears from warriors’ eyes were flowing,
High hearts with soft emotions glowing;
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting,
And ardent throngs in transport meeting;
And eager footsteps forward pressing,
And accents loud in joyous blessing;
And when their first wild tumults cease,
A thousand voices echo “Peace!”
Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away,
And the rich Orient burns with day;
Then as to greet the sunbeam’s birth,
Rises the choral hymn of earth--
Th’ exulting strain through Genoa swelling,
Of peace and holy rapture telling.
Far float the sounds o’er vale and steep,
The seaman hears them on the deep--
So mellow’d by the gale, they seem
As the wild music of a dream.
But not on mortal ear alone
Peals the triumphant anthem’s tone;
For beings of a purer sphere
Bend with celestial joy, to hear.
THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.
[“Not only the place of Richard’s confinement,” (when thrown into
prison by the Duke of Austria,) “if we believe the literary history of
the times, but even the circumstance of his captivity, was carefully
concealed by his vindictive enemies; and both might have remained
unknown but for the grateful attachment of a Provençal bard, or
minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared that prince’s friendship and
tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European continent
to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally got
intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of
distinction was confined, and guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded
by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King of England, the
minstrel repaired to the place; but the gates of the castle were shut
against him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name
or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, he
bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery.
He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been
composed partly by himself, partly by Richard; and to his unspeakable
joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and continued by the
royal captive.--(_Hist. Troubadours._) To this discovery the English
monarch is said to have eventually owed his release.”--See Russell’s
_Modern Europe_, vol. i. p. 369.
The Troubadour o’er many a plain
Hath roam’d unwearied, but in vain.
O’er many a rugged mountain-scene
And forest wild his track hath been:
Beneath Calabria’s glowing sky
He hath sung the songs of chivalry;
His voice hath swell’d on the Alpine breeze,
And rung through the snowy Pyrenees;
From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave,
He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave;
And yet, if still on earth thou art,
Monarch of the lion-heart!
The faithful spirit, which distress
But heightens to devotedness,
By toil and trial vanquish’d not,
Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.
He hath reach’d a mountain hung with vine,
And woods that wave o’er the lovely Rhine:
The feudal towers that crest its height
Frown in unconquerable might;
Dark is their aspect of sullen state--
No helmet hangs o’er the massy gate[126]
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest,
At the chieftain’s board a welcome guest;
Vainly rich evening’s parting smile
Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile,
That midst bright sunshine lowers on high,
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky.
Not these the halls where a child of song
Awhile may speed the hours along;
Their echoes should repeat alone
The tyrant’s mandate, the prisoner’s moan,
Or the wild huntsman’s bugle-blast,
When his phantom train are hurrying past.[127]
The weary minstrel paused--his eye
Roved o’er the scene despondingly:
Within the length’ning shadow, cast
By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast,
Lingering he gazed. The rocks around
Sublime in savage grandeur frown’d;
Proud guardians of the regal flood,
In giant strength the mountains stood--
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven,
Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven.
Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow,
But the Rhine all shadowy roll’d below;
In purple tints the vineyards smiled,
But the woods beyond waved dark and wild;
Nor pastoral pipe nor convent’s bell
Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell;
But all was lonely, silent, rude,
A stern, yet glorious solitude.
But hark! that solemn stillness breaking,
The Troubadour’s wild song is waking.
Full oft that song in days gone by
Hath cheer’d the sons of chivalry:
It hath swell’d o’er Judah’s mountains lone,
Hermon! thy echoes have learn’d its tone;
On the Great Plain[128] its notes have rung,
The leagued Crusaders’ tents among;
Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won
The palm in the field of Ascalon;
And now afar o’er the rocks of Rhine
Peals the bold strain of Palestine.
[126] It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a
castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake
of hospitality. So in the romance of “Perceforest,” “ils fasoient
mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un _heaulme_, en signe que tous les
gentils hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardiment en leur hostel
comme en leur propre.”
[127] Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the haunt
of the _wild Jager_, or supernatural huntsman. The superstitious tales
relating to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace’s _Classical Tour_;
and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that
the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces
the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament to the
opposite castle of Schnellerts.--See the “_Manuel pour les Voyageurs
sur le Rhin_,” and “_Autumn on the Rhine_.”
THE TROUBADOUR’S SONG.
“Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,”
The Soldan cried to the captive knight,
“And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met
To gaze on the fearful sight.
“But be our faith by thy lips profess’d,
The faith of Mecca’s shrine,
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest,
And life shall yet be thine.”
“I have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood,
And gazed with undaunted eye;
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood,
And think’st thou I fear to die?
“I have stood where thousands, by Salem’s towers,
Have fall’n for the name Divine;
And the faith that cheer’d _their_ closing hours
Shall be the light of mine.”
“Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health,
And the glow of youth’s fresh bloom?
Thou art offer’d life, and pomp, and wealth,
Or torture and the tomb.”
“I have been where the crown of thorns was twined
For a dying Saviour’s brow;
_He_ spurn’d the treasures that lure mankind,
And I reject them now!”
“Art thou the son of a noble line
In a land that is fair and blest?
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine
Again on its shores to rest?
“Thine own is the choice to hail once more
The soil of thy father’s birth,
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er,
Forgotten in foreign earth.”
“Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise
In the country of my love;
But yet, though cloudless my native skies,
There’s a brighter clime above!”
The bard hath paused--for another tone