The Poems of Felicia Hemans
The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.
He dies; but yet the mountains stand,
Yet sweeps the torrent’s tide;
And this is yet Aneurin’s[189] land--
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!
[188] At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards by Edward
the First.
[189] Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards.
THE FAIR ISLE.[190]
FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE “WELSH GROUND.”
[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, always
accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy’s country; and,
while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils, he performed
an ancient song, called _Unbennaeth Prydain_, the Monarchy of Britain.
It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition
of the Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by
their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon
invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the
bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most
valuable beast that remained.--Jones’s _Historical Account of the
Welsh Bards_.]
[190] Ynys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, and signifies
_fair_ or _beautiful isle_.
I.
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time
Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your clime;
All that its eagles behold in their flight
Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled height.
Though from your race that proud birthright be torn,
Unquench’d is the spirit for monarchy born.
CHORUS.
Darkly though clouds may hang o’er us awhile,
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle.
II.
Ages may roll ere your children regain
The land for which heroes have perish’d in vain;
Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power,
Around her still gathering in glory’s full hour.
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep,
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.
CHORUS.
Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile,
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle.
THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS.
[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of
the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resembling a couch; and
that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in
the morning either dead, in a a frenzy, or endowed with the highest
poetical inspiration.]
I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;
Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
’Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan;
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming;
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.
I lay there in silence--a spirit came o’er me;
Man’s tongue hath no language to speak what I saw;
Things glorious, unearthly, pass’d floating before me,
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
I view’d the dread beings around us that hover,
Though veil’d by the mists of mortality’s breath;
And I call’d upon darkness the vision to cover,
For a strife was within me of madness and death.
I saw them--the powers of the wind and the ocean,
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms;
Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion--
I _felt_ their dim presence, but knew not their forms!
I saw them--the mighty of ages departed--
The dead were around me that night on the hill:
From their eyes, as they pass’d, a cold radiance they darted,--
There was light on my soul, but my heart’s blood was chill.
I saw what man looks on, and dies--but my spirit
Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour;
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit
A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power!
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested,
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;--
But oh! what new glory all nature invested,
When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won![191]
[“The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs Hemans to the public
as a song-writer, had already made their appearance. Some of them are
remarkable for the melody of their numbers--in particular, the song
to the well-known air, ‘Ar hyd y nos.’ Her fine feeling for music, in
which, as also in drawing, she would have signally excelled, could
she have bestowed the time and patient labour requisite for obtaining
mastery over the mechanical difficulties of these arts, assisted
her not only in her choice of measures, but also of her words; and,
although in speaking of her songs, it must be remarked that some of
the later ones are almost too full of meaning to require the further
clothing of sweet sound, instead of their being left, as in outline,
waiting for the musician’s colouring hand, they must be all praised
as flowing and expressive; and it is needless to remind the reader
how many of them, united with her sister’s music, have obtained the
utmost popularity. She had well studied the national character of the
Welsh airs, and the allusions to the legendary history of the ancient
Britons, which her songs contain, are happily chosen. But it was an
instinct with Mrs Hernans to catch the picturesque points of national
character, as well as of national music: in the latter she always
delighted.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 80-1.]
[191] Transcriber’s Note: Footnote not found for original page 153
footnote 1.
THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
[“Mrs Hemans was at this time (1821) occupied in the composition
of her tragedy, ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ which she originally
wrote without any idea of offering it for the stage. The sanguine
recommendations, however, of Mr Reginald Heber, and the equally
kind encouragement of Mr Milman, (to whose correspondence she was
introduced through the medium of a mutual friend, though she had never
the advantage of his personal acquaintance,) induced her to venture
upon a step which her own diffidence would have withheld her from
contemplating, but for the support of such high literary authorities.
Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed
upon the tragedy by all who read it, and most especially by the
critics of the green-room, whose imprimatur might have been supposed
a sufficiently safe guarantee of success, her own anticipations,
throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between its
acceptance and representation, were far more modified than those of
her friends. In this subdued tone of feeling she thus wrote to Mr
Milman:--‘As I cannot help looking forward to the day of trial with
much more of dread than of sanguine expectation, I most willingly
acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice in
having the respite as much prolonged as possible. I begin almost
to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind
encouragement I have received from you and Mr Reginald Heber, should
be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any outlet of escape,
than in attempting to overcome the difficulties which seem to obstruct
my onward path.’”--_Memoir_, p. 81-2.]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Count di Procida.
Raimond di Procida, _his Son_.
Eribert, _Viceroy_.
De Couci.
Montalba.
Guido.
Alberti.
Anselmo, _a Monk_.
Vittoria.
Constance, _Sister to Eribert_.
_Nobles_, _Soldiers_, _Messengers_, _Vassals_, _Peasants_, &c. &c.
Scene--_Palermo_.
ACT I.
Scene I.--_A Valley, with vineyards and cottages._
_Groups of Peasants_--Procida, _disguised as a Pilgrim, among them_.
_1st Pea._ Ay, this was wont to be a festal time
In days gone by! I can remember well
The old familiar melodies that rose
At break of morn, from all our purple hills,
To welcome in the vintage. Never since
Hath music seem’d so sweet. But the light hearts
Which to those measures beat so joyously,
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice
Of joy through all the land.
_2d Pea._ Yes! there are sounds
Of revelry within the palaces,
And the fair castles of our ancient lords,
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear
From _thence_ the peals of song and laughter rise
At midnight’s deepest hour.
_3d Pea._ Alas! we sat,
In happier days, so peacefully beneath
The olives and the vines our fathers rear’d,
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps
Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe’er
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France
Falls on the peasant’s neck as heavily
As on the crested chieftain’s. We are bow’d
E’en to the earth.
_Pea’s Child._ My father, tell me when
Shall the gay dance and song again resound
Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days
Of which thou’rt wont to tell the joyous tale?
_1st Pea._ When there are light and reckless hearts once more
In Sicily’s green vales. Alas, my boy!
Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl,
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside
The weight of work-day care: they meet to speak
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts
They dare not breathe aloud.
_Pro._ (_from the background._) Ay, it is well
So to relieve th’ o’erburthen’d heart, which pants
Beneath its weight of wrongs; but better far
In silence to avenge them!
_An Old Pea._ What deep voice
Came with that startling tone?
_1st Pea._ It was our guest’s,
The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourn’d here
Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well:
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye
Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien accords
Ill with such vestments. How he folds around him
His pilgrim-cloak, e’en as it were a robe
Of knightly ermine! That commanding step
Should have been used in courts and camps to move.
Mark him!
_Old Pea._ Nay, rather mark him not; the times
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?
_A Youth._ He spoke of vengeance!
_Old Pea._ Peace! we are beset
By snares on every side, and we must learn
In silence and in patience to endure.
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death.
_Pro._ (_coming forward indignantly._)
The word is death! And what hath life for _thee_,
That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing!
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke,
And stamp’d with servitude. What! is it life
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e’en then,
Strangers should catch its echo?--Is there aught
In _this_ so precious, that thy furrow’d cheek
Is blanch’d with terror at the passing thought
Of hazarding some few and evil days,
Which drag thus poorly on?
_Some of the Peas._ Away, away!
Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence.
_Pro._ Why, what is danger? Are there deeper
ills Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain’d
The cup of bitterness till naught remains
To fear or shrink from--therefore, be ye strong!
Power dwelleth with despair. Why start ye thus
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts
Lock’d in your secret souls? Full well I know
There is not one among you but hath nursed
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make