The Poems of Felicia Hemans
But from the soaring Alps the stranger’s eye
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains,
And, with the cruel rapture of a foe,
Numbers the mighty, stretch’d in death below.
Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true!
Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys suspending.
Th’ invader comes: your banners raise anew,
Rush to the strife, your country’s call attending!
Victors! why pause ye?--Are ye weak and few?--
Ay! such he deem’d you, and for _this_ descending,
He waits you on the field ye know too well,
The same red war-field where your brethren fell.
O thou devoted land! that canst not rear
In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won,
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear
Too narrow still for each contending son;
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career
Parting thy spoils! Thy chastening is begun!
And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword,
Foes whom thou ne’er hadst wrong’d sit proudly at thy board.
Are these infatuate too!--Oh! who hath known
A people e’er by guilt’s vain triumph blest?
The wrong’d, the vanquish’d, suffer not alone,
Brief is that joy that swells th’ oppressor’s breast.
What though not yet his day of pride be flown,
Though yet heaven’s vengeance spare his haughty crest,
Well hath it mark’d him--and decreed the hour,
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power.
Are we not creatures of one hand divine,
Form’d in one mould, to one redemption born?
Kindred alike where’er our skies may shine,
Where’er our sight first drank the vital morn?
Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine,
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn!
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth,
Who bows down spirits of immortal birth!
The third act, which passes entirely in the tent of the Count, is
composed of long discourses between Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys.
One of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after his victory,
which he haughtily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave the
field until he has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses.
Another complains that the Condottieri and the soldiers have released
their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an established
military custom; and, sending for the remaining four hundred captives,
he gives them their liberty also. This act, which terminates with the
suspicious observations of the envoys on Carmagnola’s conduct, is
rather barren of interest, though the episode of the younger Pergola,
which we shall lay before our readers, is happily imagined.
As the prisoners are departing, the Count observes the younger Pergola,
and stops him.
_Car._ Thou art not, youth!
One to be number’d with the vulgar crowd.
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest
Thou minglest, and art silent!
_Per._ Silence best,
O chief! befits the vanquish’d.
_Car._ Bearing up
Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved
Worthy a better star. Thy name?
_Per._ ’Tis one
Whose heritage doth impose no common task
On him that bears it; one which to adorn
With brighter blazonry were hard emprise:
My name is Pergola.
_Car._ And art thou, then,
That warrior’s son?
_Per._ I am.
_Car._ Approach! embrace
Thy father’s early friend! What thou art now
I was when first we met. Oh! thou dost bring
Back on my heart remembrance of the days,
The young, and joyous, and adventurous days,
Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou!
My dawn, ’tis true, with brighter omens smiled,
But still fair Fortune’s glorious promises
Are for the brave; and, though delay’d awhile,
She soon or late fulfils them. Youth! salute
Thy sire for me; and say, though not of _thee_
I ask’d it, yet my heart is well assured
He counsell’d not this battle.
_Per._ Oh! he gave
Far other counsels, but his fruitless words
Were spoken to the winds.
_Car._ Lament thou not.
Upon his chieftain’s head the shame will rest
Of this defeat; and he who firmly stood
Fix’d at his post of peril hath begun
A soldier’s race full nobly. Follow me,
I will restore thy sword.
The fourth act is occupied by the machinations of the Count’s enemies
at Venice; and the jealous and complicated policy of that Republic, and
the despotic authority of the Council of Ten, are skilfully developed
in many of the scenes.
The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice in the hall of the
Council of Ten. Carmagnola is consulted by the Doge on the terms
of peace offered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is received with
disdain, and, after various insults, he is accused of treason. His
astonishment and indignation at this unexpected charge are expressed
with all the warmth and simplicity of innocence.
_Car._ A traitor! I!--that name of infamy
Reaches not me. Let him the title bear
Who best deserves such meed--it is not mine.
Call me a dupe, and I may well submit,
For such my part is here; yet would I not
Exchange that name, for ’tis the worthiest still.
A traitor!--I retrace in thought the time
When for your cause I fought; ’tis all one path
Strew’d o’er with flowers. Point out the day on which
A traitor’s deeds were mine; the day which pass’d
Unmark’d by thanks, and praise, and promises
Of high reward! What more? Behold me here!
And when I came to seeming honour call’d,
When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice
Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith--
Of trusting faith!--Oh, no! Doth he who comes
Th’ invited guest of friendship dream of faith?
I came to be ensnared! Well! it is done,
And be it so! but since deceitful hate
Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside,
Praise be to heaven! an open field at least
Is spread before us. Now ’tis yours to speak,
Mine to defend my cause; declare ye then
My treasons!
_Doge._ By the secret college soon
All shall be told thee.
_Car._ I appeal not there.
What I have done for you hath all been done
In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not
Be told in darkness. Of a warrior’s deeds
Warriors alone should judge; and such I choose
To be mine arbiters--my proud defence
Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear.
_Doge._ The time for choice is past.
_Car._ What! Is there force
Employ’d against me?--Guards! (_raising his voice._)
_Doge._ They are not nigh.
Soldiers! (_enter armed men._) Thy guards are these.
_Car._ I am betray’d!
_Doge._ ’Twas then a thought of wisdom to disperse
Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem’d
That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised,
Might prove a rebel too.
_Car._ E’en as ye list.
Now be it yours to charge me.
_Doge._ Bear him hence,
Before the secret college.
_Car._ Hear me yet
One moment first. That ye have doom’d my death
I well perceive; but with that death ye doom
Your own eternal shame. Far o’er these towers,
Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats
The banner of the Lion, in its pride
Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know
_I_ bore it thus to empire. _Here_, ’tis true,
No voice will speak men’s thoughts; but far beyond
The limits of your sway, in other scenes,
Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach’d,
Which is your sceptre’s attribute, my deeds
And your reward will live in chronicles
For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect
Your annals, and the future! Ye will need
A warrior soon, and who will then be yours?
Forget not, though your captive now I stand,
I was not born your subject. No! my birth
Was midst a warlike people, one in soul,
And watchful o’er its rights, and used to deem
The honour of each citizen its own.
Think ye this outrage will be there unheard?
There is some treachery here. Our common foes
Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know
I have been faithful still. There yet is time.
_Doge._ The time is past. When thou didst meditate
Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy
Those destined to chastise it; then the hour
Of foresight should have been.
_Car._ O mean in soul!
And dost thou dare to think a warrior’s breast
For worthless life can tremble? Thou shalt soon
Learn how to die. Go! When the hour of fate
On thy vile couch o’ertakes thee, thou wilt meet
Its summons with far other mien than such
As I shall bear to ignominious death.
Scene II.--_The House of Carmagnola._
Antonietta, Matilda.
_Mat._ The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet
My father comes not!
_Ant._ Ah! thou hast not learn’d,
By sad experience, with how slow a pace
Joys ever come; expected long, and oft
Deceiving expectation! while the steps
Of grief o’ertake us ere we dream them nigh.
But night is past, the long and lingering hours
Of hope deferr’d are o’er, and those of bliss
Must soon succeed. A few short moments more,
And he is with us. E’en from this delay
I augur well. A council held so long
Must be to give us peace. He will be ours.
Perhaps for years our own.
_Mat._ O mother! thus
My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears,
And days in all the sickness of suspense,
Our anxious love hath pass’d. It is full time
That each sad moment, at each rumour’d tale,
Each idle murmur of the people’s voice,
We should not longer tremble, that no more
This thought should haunt our souls--E’en now,
perchance,
He for whom thus your hearts are yearning--dies!
_Ant._ Oh! fearful thought--but vain and distant
now!
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief.
Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led
In triumph midst the noble and the brave,
Thy glorious father to the temple bore
The banners won in battle from his foes?
_Mat._ A day to be remember’d!
_Ant._ By his side
Each seem’d inferior. Every breath of air
Swell’d with his echoing name; and we, the while
Station’d on high and sever’d from the throng,
Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all,
While, with the tide of rapture half o’erwhelm’d,
Our hearts beat high, and whisper’d--“We are his.”
_Mat._ Moments of joy!
_Ant._ What have we done, my child,
To merit such? Heaven, for so high a fate,
Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow
Inscribed a lofty name--a name so bright,
That he to whom thou bear’st the gift, whate’er
His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark
For envy is the glory of our lot!
And we should weigh its joys against these hours
Of fear and sorrow.
_Mat._ They are past e’en now.
Hark! ’twas the sound of oars!--it swells--’tis hush’d!
The gates unclose. O mother! I behold
A warrior clad in mail--he comes, ’tis he!
_Ant._ Whom should it be if not himself?--my
husband!
(_She comes forward._)
(_Enter_ Gonzaga _and others._)
_Ant._ Gonzaga!--Where is he we look’d for?
Where?
Thou answer’st not! Oh, heaven! thy looks are fraught
With prophecies of woe!
_Gon._ Alas! too true
The omens they reveal!
_Mat._ Of woe to whom?
_Gon._ Oh! why hath such a task of bitterness
Fallen to my lot?
_Ant._ Thou wouldst be pitiful,
And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense;
Speak! I adjure thee, in the name of God!
Where is my husband?