The Poems of Felicia Hemans

almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of such an application.--“Le cerveau d’un poète est d’une cire molle et flexible, où s’imprime naturellement tout ce qui le flatte, le séduit, et l’alimente. La muse du chant n’a pas de partie; c’est une étourdie sans conséquence, qui folâtre également et sur de riches gazons et sur d’arides bruyères. Un poète en délire chante indifféremment Titus et Thamask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suède et Stanchon la Vielleuse.” THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. The _Alcestis_ of Alfieri is said to have been the last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which his former works present so few examples. It would appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writings bear witness to that “fever at the core,” that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth was consumed; but the poetry of _Alcestis_ must find its echo in every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, however, though entirely domestic, is not for a moment allowed to languish; nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the mainspring of the action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination the calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this analogy. The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author, even in his most celebrated productions. It is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, as the severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon the melody of the original language. ACT I.--Scene II. Alcestis, Pheres. _Alc._ Weep thou no more! O monarch, dry thy tears! For know, he shall not die; not now shall fate Bereave thee of thy son. _Phe._ What mean thy words? Hath then Apollo--is there then a hope? _Alc._ Yes! hope for _thee_--hope by the voice announced From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield To other lips the tidings, meet alone For thee to hear from mine. _Phe._ But say! oh! say, Shall then my son be spared? _Alc._ He shall, to _thee_. Thus hath Apollo said--Alcestis thus Confirms the oracle--be thou secure. _Phe._ O sounds of joy! He lives! _Alc._ But not for this, Think not that e’en for _this_ the stranger Joy Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. _Phe._ Can there be grief when from his bed of death Admetus rises? What deep mystery lurks Within thy words? What mean’st thou? Gracious heaven! Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear’st The tidings of his safety, and dost bear Transport and life in that glad oracle To his despairing sire; thy cheek is tinged With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow, To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt In troubled silence. Speak! oh, speak! _Alc._ The gods Themselves have limitations to their power Impassable, eternal--and their will Resists not the tremendous laws of fate: Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life Of thy restored Admetus. _Phe._ In thy looks There is expression, more than in thy words, Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what terms Can render fatal to thyself and us The rescued life of him thy soul adores? _Alc._ O father! could my silence aught avail To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill’d Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish; And since too soon, too well it must be known, Hear it from me. _Phe._ Throughout my curdling veins Runs a cold, deathlike horror; and I feel I am not all a father. In my heart Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, O fair and high-soul’d consort of my son! More than a daughter; and thine infant race, The cherish’d hope and glory of my age; And, unimpair’d by time, within my breast, High, holy, and unalterable love For her, the partner of my cares and joys, Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, In what suspense, what agony of fear, I wait thy words; for well, too well, I see Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries, To some one of my race. _Alc._ Death hath his rights, Of which not e’en the great Supernal Powers May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, Already seized, the noble victim lay, The heir of empire, in his glowing prime And noonday, struck:--Admetus, the revered, The bless’d, the loved, by all who own’d his sway-- By his illustrious parents, by the realms Surrounding his--and oh! what need to add, How much by his Alcestis?--Such was he, Already in th’ unsparing grasp of death Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence Hath snatch’d him, and another in his stead, Though not an equal--(who can equal him?) Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. Another, of his lineage or to him By closest bonds united, must descend To the dark realm of Orcus in _his_ place, Who thus alone is saved. _Phe._ What do I hear? Woe to us, woe!--what victim?--who shall be Accepted in his stead? _Alc._ The dread exchange E’en now, O father! hath been made; the prey Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him For whom ’tis freely offer’d. Nor wilt thou, O mighty goddess of th’ infernal shades! Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, Disdain the victim. _Phe._ All prepared the prey! And to our blood allied! Oh, heaven!--and yet Thou had’st me weep no more! _Alc._ Yes! thus I said, And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep Thy son’s, nor I deplore my husband’s doom. Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard, Than those _his_ death had caused.--With some few tears, But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, E’en while the involuntary tribute lasts, The victim shall be honour’d who resign’d Life for Admetus.--Would’st thou know the prey, The vow’d, the willing, the devoted one, Offer’d and hallow’d to th’ infernal gods, Father!--’tis I. _Phe._ What hast thou done? Oh, heaven! What hast thou done? And think’st thou he is saved By such a compact? Think’st thou he can live Bereft of thee?--Of thee, his light of life, His very soul!--Of thee, beloved far more Than his loved parents--than his children more-- More than himself? Oh no! it shall not be? _Thou_ perish, O Alcestis! in the flower Of thy young beauty!--perish, and destroy Not him, not _him_ alone, but us, but all, Who as a child adore thee! Desolate Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. And think’st thou not of those whose tender years Demand thy care?--thy children! think of them! O thou, the source of each domestic joy, Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives, His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die While I can die for thee! Me, me alone, The oracle demands--a wither’d stem, Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. My race is run--the fulness of my years, The faded hopes of age, and all the love Which hath its dwelling in a father’s heart, And the fond pity, half with wonder blent, Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts So richly is endow’d;--all, all unite To grave in adamant the just decree, That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live! Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis--live! Ne’er, ne’er shall woman’s youthful love surpass An aged sire’s devotedness. _Alc._ I know Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love; Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain Strove to anticipate their high resolves. But if in silence I have heard thy words, Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own They may not be withstood. _Phe._ What canst thou say Which I should hear? I go, resolved to save Him who with thee would perish;--to the shrine E’en now I fly. _Alc._ Stay, stay thee! ’tis too late. Already hath consenting Proserpine, From the remote abysses of her realms, Heard and accepted the terrific vow Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, To death. And I am firm, and well I know None can deprive me of the awful right That vow hath won. * * * * * Yes! thou mayst weep my fate, Mourn for me, father! but thou canst not blame My lofty purpose. Oh! the more endear’d My life by every tie--the more I feel Death’s bitterness, the more my sacrifice Is worthy of Admetus. I descend To the dim shadowy regions of the dead A guest more honour’d.... In thy presence here Again I utter’d the tremendous vow, Now more than half fulfill’d. I feel, I know, Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins Th’ insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o’er. The Monarch of the Dead hath heard--he calls, He summons me away--and thou art saved, O my Admetus! In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to complete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proserpine’s statue. The following scene ensues between her and Admetus. _Alc._ Here, O my faithful handmaids! at the feet Of Proserpine’s dread image spread my couch; For I myself e’en now must offer here The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile, My children! seek your sire. Behold him there, Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins Health’s genial current flows once more, as free As in his brightest days: and he shall live-- Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, And with your innocent encircling arms Twine round him fondly. _Eum._ Can it be indeed, Father, loved father! that we see thee thus Restored? What joy is ours! _Adm._ There is no joy! Speak not of joy! Away, away! my grief Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more! I know not of affection, and I feel No more a father. _Eum._ Oh! what words are these? Are we no more thy children? Are we not Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around his neck More close; he must return the fond embrace. _Adm._ O children! O my children! to my soul Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, That pierce it to the quick. I can no more Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound Of your soft accents but too well recalls The voice which was the music of my life. Alcestis! my Alcestis!--was she not