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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

_Gon._ Heaven sustain your souls With fortitude to bear the tale! My chief---- _Mat._ Is he return’d unto the field? _Gon._ Alas! Thither the warrior shall return no more. The senate’s wrath is on him. He is now A prisoner! _Ant._ He is a prisoner!--and for what? _Gon._ He is accused of treason. _Mat._ Treason! _He_ A traitor!--Oh! my father! _Ant._ Haste! proceed, And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all. Say, what shall be his sentence? _Gon._ From my lips It shall not be reveal’d. _Ant._ Oh! he is slain! _Gon._ He lives, but yet his doom is fix’d. _Ant._ He lives! Weep not, my daughter! ’tis the time to act. For pity’s sake, Gonzaga, be thou not Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. He was thy friend--ah! haste, then, be our guide; Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child! Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left Mercy upon the earth. Yes! they themselves Are husbands, they are fathers! When they sign’d The fearful sentence, they remember’d not _He_ was a father and a husband too. But when their eyes behold the agony One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will melt: They will, they must revoke it. Oh! the sight Of mortal woe is terrible to man! Perhaps the warrior’s lofty soul disdain’d To vindicate his deeds, or to recall His triumphs won for them. It is for us To wake each high remembrance. Ah! we know That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, And we will pray. _Gon._ Oh, heaven! that I could leave Your hearts one ray of hope! There is no ear, No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt Falls heavy, and the hand by which ’tis launch’d Is veil’d in clouds. There is one comfort still, The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart. Oh! fearful is the trial, but the God Of mourners will be with you. _Mat._ Is there not One hope? _Ant._ Alas! my child! Scene IV.--_A Prison._ Carmagnola. They must have heard it now.--Oh! that at least I might have died far from them! Though their hearts Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, The solemn hour of nature’s parting pangs Had then been past. It meets us darkly now, And we must drain its draught of bitterness Together, drop by drop. O ye wide fields, Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms! O proud delights of danger! Battle-cries, And thou, my war-steed! and ye trumpet-notes Kindling the soul! Midst your tumultuous joys Death seem’d all beautiful.--And must I then, With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate Be dragg’d, e’en as a felon, on the winds Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints? And Marco! hath he not betray’d me too? Vile doubt! That I could cast it from my soul Before I die!--But no! What boots it now Thus to look back on life with eye that turns To linger where my footstep may not tread? Now, Philip! thou wilt triumph! Be it so! I too have proved such vain and impious joys, And know their value now. But oh! again To see those loved ones, and to hear the last, Last accents of their voices! By those arms Once more to be encircled, and from thence To tear myself for ever!--Hark! they come!-- O God of mercy, from thy throne look down In pity on their woes! Scene V. Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, _and_ Carmagnola. _Ant._ My husband! _Mat._ O my father! _Ant._ Is it thus That thou returnest? and is this the hour Desired so long! _Car._ O ye afflicted ones! Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death, And calmly wait his time. For you alone My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then, Deprive me of its aid? When the Most High On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows The courage to sustain them. Oh! let yours Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy In this embrace: ’tis still a gift of heaven. Thou weep’st, my child! and thou, beloved wife! Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flow’d on In peace and gladness; I united thee To my disastrous fate, and now the thought Embitters death! Oh! that I had not seen The woes I cause thee! _Ant._ Husband of my youth! Of my bright days, thou who didst make them bright, Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there, And yet e’en now--I would not but be thine. _Car._ Full well I know how much I lose in thee; Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now. _Mat._ The homicides! _Car._ No, sweet Matilda, no! Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb These moments--they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, That, e’en midst all the fulness of our woe, High, holy joy remains. Death! death!--our foes, Our most relentless foes, can only speed Th’ inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not Invented death for man; it would be _then_ Madd’ning and insupportable: from heaven ’Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs With such blest comfort as no mortal power Can give or take away. My wife! my child! Hear my last words--they wring your bosoms now With agony, but yet, some future day, ’Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife! Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr’d girl Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, Conduct her to thy kindred: she is theirs, Of their own blood--and they so loved thee once! Then, to their foe united, thou becamest Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds Of Carmagnola’s and Visconti’s names. But to their bosoms thou wilt now return A mourner; and the object of their hate Will be no more.--Oh! there is joy in death!-- And thou, my flower! that, midst the din of arms, Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest’s rage Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. I feel thy burning tears upon my breast-- I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know’st That the forsaken have a Father still On high. Confide in Him, and live to days Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour’d The torrent of affliction on thy youth, If to thy future years be not reserved All His benign compassion! Live! and soothe Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms Of no ignoble consort lead thee still!-- Gonzaga! take the hand which thou hast press’d Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith To guide and guard these mourners, till they join Their friends and kindred? _Gon._ Rest assured, I will. _Car._ I am content. And if, when this is done, Thou to the field returnest, there for me Salute my brethren; tell them that I died Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds, Hast read my inmost thoughts--and know’st it well. Tell them I never with a traitor’s shame Stain’d my bright sword. Oh, never!--I myself Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart, And banners proudly waving in the air,-- Think of thine ancient comrade! And the day Following the combat, when upon the field, Amidst the deep and solemn harmony Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, With lifted hands, is offering for the slain His sacrifice to heaven; forget me not! For I, too, hoped upon the battle-plain E’en so to die. _Ant._ Have mercy on us, heaven! _Car._ My wife! Matilda! Now the hour is nigh, And we must part.--Farewell! _Mat._ No, father! no! _Car._ Come to this breast yet, yet once more, and then For pity’s sake depart! _Ant._ No! force alone Shall tear us hence. (_A sound of arms is heard._) _Mat._ Hark! what dread sound! _Ant._ Great God! (_The door is half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of whom advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless._) _Car._ O God! I thank thee. O most merciful! Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs Of this dread moment’s conflict! Thou, my friend, Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe, And tell them, when their eyes again unclose To meet the day--that naught is left to fear. Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention which this tragedy has excited in Italy must be principally attributed to the boldness of the author in so completely emancipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted themselves to those rules has been sufficiently remarkable to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for the courage of the writer who should attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of several years, and that, too, in days so troubled and so “full of fate”--days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting interests--there is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of incident, as if “to be born and die” made all the history of aspiring natures contending for supremacy. The character of the hero is portrayed in words, not in actions; it does not unfold itself in any struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and the interest excited for him only commences at the moment when it ought to have reached its climax. The merits of the piece may be summed up in the occasional energy of the language and dignity of the thoughts; and the truth with which the spirit of the age is characterised, as well in the development of that suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the Venetian government, as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of war-- “Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel.” CAIUS GRACCHUS. A TRAGEDY, BY MONTI. This tragedy, though inferior in power and interest to the _Aristodemo_ of the same author, is nevertheless distinguished by beauties of a high order, and such as, in our opinion, fully establish its claims to more general attention than it has hitherto received. Although the loftiness and severity of Roman manners, in the days of the Republic, have been sufficiently preserved to give an impressive character to the piece, yet those workings of passion and tenderness--without which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and heroism unnatural--have not been (as in the tragedies of Alfieri upon similar subjects) too rigidly suppressed. The powerful character of the high-hearted Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty which our ideas are wont to associate with the name of a Roman matron, and the depth and sublimity of maternal affection more particularly belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are beautifully contrasted with the softer and more womanish feelings, the