The Poems of Felicia Hemans
than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, without difficulty, to the
celebrated monologue of Hamlet.
A leader--or a fugitive? To drag
Slow years along in idle vacancy,
As a worn veteran living on the fame
Of former deeds--to offer humble prayers
And blessings for protection--owing all
Yet left me of existence to the might
Of other swords, dependent on some arm
Which soon may cast me off; or on the field
To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life
Rush proudly through my veins--to hail again
My lofty star, and at the trumpet’s voice
To wake! to rule! to conquer!--Which must be
My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace
Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling
Still poorly to ignoble safety here,
Secluded as a homicide, who cowers
Within a temple’s precincts? Shall not he
Who made a kingdom’s fate, control his own!
Is there not one among the many lords
Of this divided Italy--not one
With soul enough to envy that bright crown
Encircling Philip’s head? And know they not
’Twas won by me from many a tyrant’s grasp,
Snatch’d by my hand, and placed upon the brow
Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns
Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize
On him who best shall call the prowess forth
Which slumbers in my arm?
Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, now arrives, and announces
to him that war is resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the
command of the armies, at the same time advising him to act with
caution towards his enemies in the Republic.
_Car._ Think’st thou I know not whom to deem my foes?
Ay, I could number all.
_Mar._ And know’st thou, too,
What fault hath made them such? ’Tis that thou art
So high above them: ’tis that thy disdain
Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one
Hath done thee wrong; but who, when so resolved,
Finds not his time to injure? In thy thoughts,
Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs;
But they remember _thee_. The high in soul
Scorn and forget; but to the grovelling heart
There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not;
Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own.
I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul
Revolts indignantly--thou know’st it well:
But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet
For the most lofty nature,--there is power
Of winning meaner minds, without descent
From the high spirit’s glorious eminence,--
And would’st thou seek that magic, it were thine.
The first scene of the second act represents part of the Duke of
Milan’s camp near Maclodio. Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and
Pergola, a Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberating upon
the state of the war. Pergola considers it imprudent to give battle,
Malatesti is of a contrary opinion. They are joined by Sforza and
Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action, and Torello, who endeavours
to convince them of its inexpediency.
_Sfo._ Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul
Which fires each soldier’s eye?
_Tor._ I mark’d it well.
I heard th’ impatient shout, th’ exulting voice
Of Hope and Courage; and I turn’d aside,
That on my brow the warrior might not read
Th’ involuntary thought whose sudden gloom
Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought,
That this vain semblance of delusive joy
Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought
On wasted valour doom’d to perish here.
* * * * *
For these--what boots it to disguise the truth?--
These are no wars in which, for all things loved,
And precious, and revered--for all the ties
Clinging around the heart--for those whose smile
Makes home so lovely--for his native land,
And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights!
These are no wars in which the chieftain’s aim
Is but to station his devoted bands,
And theirs, thus fix’d--to die! It is _our_ fate
To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe
Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts
They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on;
But if delay’d, if between flight and death
Pausing they stand--is there no cause to doubt
What choice were theirs? And but too well our hearts
That choice might here foresee. Oh! evil times,
When for the leader care augments, the more
Bright glory fades away! Yet once again,
This is no field for us.
After various debates, Malatesti resolves to attack the enemy. The
fourth and fifth scenes of the second act represent the tent of the
Count in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for battle. And
here a magnificent piece of lyric poetry is introduced, in which the
battle is described, and its fatal effects lamented with all the
feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears to us, however, that
this ode, hymn, or chorus as the author has entitled it, striking
as its effect may be in a separate recitation, produces a much less
powerful impression in the situation it occupies at present. It is even
necessary, in order to appreciate its singular beauty, that it should
be re-perused, as a thing detached from the tragedy. The transition
is too violent, in our opinion, from a tragic action, in which the
characters are represented as clothed with existence, and passing
before us with all their contending motives and feelings laid open to
our inspection, to the comparative coldness of a lyric piece, where the
author’s imagination expatiates alone. The poet may have been led into
this error by a definition of Schlegel’s, who, speaking of the Greek
choruses, gives it as his opinion, that “the chorus is to be considered
as a personification of the moral thoughts inspired by the action--as
the organ of the poet, who speaks in the name of the whole human race.
The chorus, in short, is the _ideal_ spectator.”
But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek chorus was composed
of _real_ characters, and expressed the sentiments of the people
before whose eyes the action was imagined to be passing: thus the
_true_ spectator, after witnessing in representation the triumphs
or misfortunes of kings and heroes, heard from the chorus the idea
supposed to be entertained on the subject by the more enlightened part
of the multitude. If the author, availing himself of his talent for
lyric poetry, and varying the measure in conformity to the subject, had
brought his chorus into action--introducing, for example, a veteran
looking down upon the battle from an eminence, and describing its
vicissitudes to the persons below, with whom he might interchange
a variety of national and moral reflections--it appears to us that
the dramatic effect would have been considerably heightened, and the
assertion that the Greek chorus is not compatible with the system of
the modern drama possibly disapproved. We shall present our readers
with the entire chorus of which we have spoken, as a piece to be read
separately, and one to which the following title would be much more
appropriate.
_The Battle of Maclodio (or Macalo.) An Ode._
Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s sound,
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies!
On every side hoarse echoes from the ground
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise,
Hollow and deep--and banners, all around,
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies;
Here steel-clad bands in marshall’d order shine,
And there a host confronts their glittering line.
Lo! half the field already from the sight
Hath vanish’d, hid by closing groups of foes!
Swords crossing swords flash lightning o’er the fight,
And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows!
Oh! who are these? What stranger in his might
Comes bursting on the lovely land’s repose?
What patriot hearts have nobly vow’d to save
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave?
One race, alas! these foes--one kindred race,
Were born and rear’d the same fair scenes among!
The stranger calls them brothers--and each face
That brotherhood reveals;--one common tongue
Dwells on their lips--the earth on which we trace
Their heart’s blood is the soil from whence they sprung.
One mother gave them birth--this chosen land,
Circled with Alps and seas by Nature’s guardian hand.
Oh, grief and horror! who the first could dare
Against a brother’s breast the sword to wield?
What cause unhallow’d and accursed, declare,
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field?
Think’st thou they know?--they but inflict and share
Misery and death, the motive unreveal’d!
--Sold to a leader, sold _himself_ to die,
With him they strive--they fall--and ask not why.
But are there none who love them? Have they none--
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between,
And win with tears the husband and the son
Back to his home, from this polluted scene?
And they whose hearts, when life’s bright day is done,
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene,
Thoughts of the tomb--why cannot _they_ assuage
The storms of passion with the voice of age?
Ask not!--the peasant at his cabin-door
Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud
Which skirts th’ horizon, menacing to pour
Destruction down o’er fields he hath not plough’d.
Thus, where no echo of the battle’s roar
Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd
In tranquil safety number o’er the slain,
Or tell of cities burning on the plain.
There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze
Fix’d on his mother’s lips, intent to know,
By names of insult, those whom future days
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe.
There proudly many a glittering dame displays
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow,
By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne,
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn.
Woe to the victors and the vanquish’d! woe!
The earth is heap’d, is loaded with the slain;
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow--
A sea of blood is swelling o’er the plain.
But from th’ embattled front, already, lo!
A band recedes--it flies--all hope is vain,
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife,
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life.
As the light grain disperses in the air,
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around,
Thus fly the vanquish’d in their wild despair,
Chased, sever’d, scatter’d, o’er the ample ground.
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there,
Burst on their flight; and hark! the deepening sound
Of fierce pursuit!--still nearer and more near,
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear.
The day is won! They fall--disarm’d they yield,
Low at the conqueror’s feet all suppliant lying!
Midst shouts of victory pealing o’er the field,
Ah! who may hear the murmurs of the dying?
Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal’d!
E’en now the courier to his steed is flying,
He spurs--he speeds--with tidings of the day,
To rouse up cities in his lightning way.
Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes,
O eager multitudes! around him pressing?
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams,
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing!
Know ye not _whence_ th’ ill-omen’d herald comes,
And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?--
Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold,--
Be ye content! the glorious tale is told.
I hear the voice of joy, th’ exulting cry!
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains:
E’en now the homicides assail the sky
With pæans, which indignant heaven disdains!