The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount
The terrible achievements! At the cries,
The groans, th’ unutterable pangs of those,
The more than hundred thousand wretches, doom’d
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword,
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth
In horror doth not open! They were foes,
They were barbarians, but unarm’d, subdued,
Weeping, imploring mercy! And the law
Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak,
To tame the lofty! But in other lands,
Why should I seek for records of his crimes,
If there the suffering people ask in vain
A little earth to lay their bones in peace?
If the decree which yielded to their claims
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal
Thy brother’s blood was shed--if this remain
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he
That mock’d its power?--Who to all Rome declared
Thy brother’s death was just, was needful?--Who
But Scipio? And remember thou the words
Which burst in thunder from thy lips e’en then,
Heard by the people! Caius, in my heart
They have been deeply treasured. He must die,
(Thus did’st thou speak) this tyrant! We have need
That he should perish! I have done the deed;
And call’st thou _me_ his murderer? If the blow
Was guilt, then _thou_ art guilty. From thy lips
The sentence came--the crime is thine alone.
I, thy devoted friend, did but obey
Thy mandate.
_Caius._ Thou my friend! I am not one
To call a villain friend. Let thunders, fraught
With fate and death, awake to scatter those
Who, bringing liberty through paths of blood,
Bring chains!--degrading Freedom’s lofty self
Below e’en Slavery’s level! Say thou not,
Wretch! that the sentence and the guilt were mine!
I wish’d him slain!--’tis so--but by the axe
Of high and public justice--that whose stroke
On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced
Unutterably my name: I bid thee tremble!
_Ful._ Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee:
Let insult cease! Be the deed just or guilty,
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not
To utter more.
_Caius._ And what hast thou to say?
_Ful._ That which I now suppress.
_Caius._ How! are there yet,
Perchance, more crimes to be reveal’d?
_Ful._ I know not.
_Caius._ Thou know’st not?--Horror chills my curdling veins;
I dare not ask thee further.
_Ful._ Thou dost well.
_Caius._ What saidst thou?
_Ful._ Nothing.
_Caius._ On my heart the words
Press heavily. Oh! what a fearful light
Bursts o’er my soul!--Hast thou accomplices?
_Ful._ Insensate! ask me not.
_Caius._ I must be told.
_Ful._ Away!--thou wilt repent.
_Caius._ No more of this, for I _will_ know.
_Ful._ Thou wilt?
Ask then thy sister.
_Caius._ (_alone_.) Ask my sister! What!
Is she a murderess? Hath my sister slain
Her lord? Oh! crime of darkest dye! Oh! name
Till now unstain’d, name of the Gracchi, thus
Consign’d to infamy!--to infamy?
The very hair doth rise upon my head,
Thrill’d by the thought! Where shall I find a place
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains
From this dishonour’d brow? What should I do?
There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones
Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry,
“Away!--and pause not--slay thy guilty sister!”
Voice of lost honour, of a noble line
Disgraced, I will obey thee!--terribly
Thou call’st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased.
PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS.
Whoever has attentively studied the works of the Italian poets, from
the days of Dante and Petrarch to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, must
have been struck with those allusions to the glory and the fall, the
renown and the degradation, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest
to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that devoted country,
the warning voice of her bards has still been heard to prophesy
the impending storm, and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring
recollections from the glorious past, as have resounded through the
land, notwithstanding the loudest tumults of those discords which have
made her--
“Long, long, a bloody stage
For petty kinglings tame,
Their miserable game
Of puny war to wage.”
There is something very affecting in these vain, though exalted
aspirations after that independence which the Italians, as a nation,
seem destined never to regain. The strains in which their high-toned
feelings on this subject are recorded, produce on our minds the same
effect with the song of the imprisoned bird, whose melody is fraught,
in our imagination, with recollections of the green woodland, the free
air, and unbounded sky. We soon grow weary of the perpetual _violets
and zephyrs_, whose cloying sweetness pervades the sonnets and canzoni
of the minor Italian poets, till we are ready to “die in aromatic
pain;” nor is our interest much more excited even by the everlasting
_laurel_ which inspires the enamoured Petrarch with so ingenious a
variety of _concetti_, as might reasonably cause it to be doubted
whether the beautiful Laura, or the emblematic tree, are the real
object of the bard’s affection; but the moment a patriotic chord is
struck, our feelings are awakened, and we find it easy to sympathise
with the emotions of a modern Roman, surrounded by the ruins of the
Capitol; a Venetian when contemplating the proud trophies won by his
ancestors at Byzantium; or a Florentine amongst the tombs of the mighty
dead, in the church of Santa Croce. It is not, perhaps, _now_ the time
to plead, with any effect, the cause of Italy; yet cannot we consider
that nation as altogether degraded, whose literature, from the dawn of
its majestic immortality, has been consecrated to the nurture of every
generous principle and ennobling recollection; and whose “choice and
master spirits,” under the most adverse circumstances, have kept alive
a flame, which may well be considered as imperishable, since the “ten
thousand tyrants” of the land have failed to quench its brightness. We
present our readers with a few of the minor effusions, in which the
indignant though unavailing regrets of those who, to use the words of
Alfieri, are “slaves, yet still _indignant_ slaves,”[149] have been
feelingly portrayed.
The first of these productions must, in the original, be familiar to
every reader who has any acquaintance with Italian literature.
VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.
When from the mountain’s brow the gathering shades
Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell:
Day beams o’er other lands, if here she fades,
Nor bids the universe at once farewell.
But thou, I cry, my country! what a night
Spreads o’er thy glories one dark sweeping pall!
Thy thousand triumphs, won by valour’s might
And wisdom’s voice--what now remains of all?
And see’st thou not th’ ascending flame of war
Burst through thy darkness, reddening from afar?
Is not thy misery’s evidence complete?
But if endurance can thy fall delay,
Still, still endure, devoted one! and say,
If it be victory thus but to retard defeat.
CARLO MARIA MAGGI.
I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call,
Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep,
And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from sleep
Startle the next! one peril broods o’er all.
It nought avails that Italy should plead,
Forgetting valour, sinking in despair,
At strangers’ feet!--our land is all too fair;
Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition’s speed.
In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye,
For pardon sue; ’tis not her agony,
Her death alone may now appease her foes.
Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun!
But oh, weak pride! thus feeble and undone,
Nor to wage battle nor endure repose!
[149] “Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi.”--Alfieri.
ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI.
Italia! oh, no more Italia now!
Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear:
She was a queen with glory mantled--thou,
A slave, degraded, and compell’d to bear,
Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of care
Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies;
And shadows, born of terror and despair--
Shadows of death have dimm’d thy glorious eyes.
Italia! oh, Italia now no more!
For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow;
And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour
Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woe
Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while
Behold thy miseries with insulting smile.
ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI.
She that cast down the empires of the world,
And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome,
Dragg’d them, from freedom and dominion hurl’d,
Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o’ercome:
I see her now, dismantled of her state,
Spoil’d of her sceptre, crouching to the ground
Beneath a hostile car--and lo! the weight
Of fetters, her imperial neck around!
Oh! that a stranger’s envious hands had wrought
This desolation! for I then would say,
“Vengeance, Italia!”--in the burning thought
Losing my grief: but ’tis th’ ignoble sway
Of vice hath bow’d thee! Discord, slothful ease,
_Theirs_ is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.
FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI.
THE SHORE OF AFRICA.
Pilgrim! whose steps those desert sands explore,
Where verdure never spreads its bright array;
Know, ’twas on this inhospitable shore
From Pompey’s heart the life-blood ebb’d away.
Twas here betray’d he fell, neglected lay;
Nor found _his_ relics a sepulchral stone,
Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day,
O’er Tiber’s wave supreme in glory shone!
Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth,
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth
Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die;
But if ’tis Roman blood that fills thy veins,
Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains,
And bathe with tears the grave of liberty.
JEU-D’ESPRIT ON THE WORD “BARB.”
[“It was either during the present or a future visit to the same
friends,[150] that the _jeu-d’esprit_ was produced which Mrs Hemans
used to call her ‘sheet of forgeries’ on the use of the word Barb.
A gentleman had requested her to furnish him with some authorities
from the old English writers, proving that this term was in use
as applied to a steed. She very shortly supplied him with the
following imitations, which were written down almost impromptu: the
mystification succeeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some
time afterwards.”--_Memoir_, p. 43.]
[150] The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., Wavertree Lodge, near
Liverpool.
The warrior donn’d his well-worn garb,
And proudly waved his crest,
He mounted on his jet-black barb,
And put his lance in rest.
Percy’s _Reliques_.
Eftsoons the wight, withouten more delay,
Spurr’d his brown _barb_, and rode full swiftly on his way.
Spenser.
Hark! was it not the trumpet’s voice I heard?
The soul of battle is awake within me!
The fate of ages and of empires hangs
On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms?
Bring my good lance, caparison my steed!
Base, idle grooms! are ye in league against me?
Haste with my _barb_, or, by the holy saints,
Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow!
Massinger.
No sooner had the pearl-shedding fingers of the young Aurora
tremulously unlocked the oriental portals of the golden horizon, than