The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Is’t thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold
The councils of their country?
_Raim._ Why, such scenes
In their primeval majesty, beheld
Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire
Far deeper thoughts than pillar’d halls, wherein
Statesmen hold weary vigils. Are we not
O’ershadow’d by that Etna, which of old
With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay
Through tyrants’ hearts, and bade them seek a home
In other climes? Hark! from its depths, e’en now,
What hollow moans are sent!
_Enter_ Montalba, Guido, _and other Sicilians_.
_Pro._ Welcome, my brave associates! We can share
The wolf’s wild freedom here! Th’ oppressor’s haunt
Is not midst rocks and caves. Are we all met?
_Sicilians._ All, all!
_Pro._ The torchlight, sway’d by every gust,
But dimly shows your features.--Where is he
Who from his battles had return’d to breathe
Once more without a corslet, and to meet
The voices and the footsteps and the smiles
Blent with his dreams of home? Of that dark tale
The rest is known to vengeance! Art thou here,
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair,
Childless Montalba?
_Mon._ (_advancing._) He is at thy side.
Call on that desolate father in the hour
When his revenge is nigh.
_Pro._ Thou, too, come forth,
From thine own halls an exile! Dost thou make
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still,
While hostile banners o’er thy rampart walls
Wave their proud blazonry?
_1st Sicilian._ Even so. I stood
Last night before my own ancestral towers
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat
On my bare head. What reck’d it? There was joy
Within, and revelry; the festive lamps
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs
I’ th’ stranger’s tongue, made mirth. They little deem’d
Who heard their melodies! But there are thoughts
Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows
Known to the mountain echoes. Procida!
Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh.
_Pro._ I knew a young Sicilian--one whose heart
Should be all fire. On that most guilty day
When, with our martyr’d Conradin, the flower
Of the land’s knighthood perish’d; he of whom
I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid,
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms,
Calling upon his father, whose last look
Turn’d full on him its parting agony.
The father’s blood gush’d o’er him! and the boy
Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye,
And a proud flush on his young cheek, look’d up
To the bright heaven.--Doth he remember still
That bitter hour?
_2d Sicilian._ He bears a sheathless sword!
--Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh.
_Pro._ Our band shows gallantly--but there are men
Who should be with us now, had they not dared
In some wild moment of festivity
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish
For freedom!--and some traitor--it might be
A breeze perchance--bore the forbidden sound
To Eribert: so they must die--unless
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select
Some other victim first! But have they not
Brothers or sons among us?
_Gui._ Look on me!
I have a brother--a young high-soul’d boy,
And beautiful as a sculptor’s dream, with brow
That wears amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is
A glorious creature! But his doom is seal’d
With theirs of whom ye spoke; and I have knelt--
Ay, scorn me not! ’twas for his life--I knelt
E’en at the viceroy’s feet, and he put on
That heartless laugh of cold malignity
We know so well, and spurn’d me. But the stain
Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off,
And _thus_ it shall be cancell’d! Call on me,
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.
_Pro._ I call upon thee _now_! The land’s high soul
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature’s hues
To deeper life before it. In his chains,
The peasant dreams of freedom!--Ay, ’tis thus
Oppression fans th’ imperishable flame
With most unconscious hands. No praise be hers
For what she blindly works! When slavery’s cup
O’erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant
To dull our senses, through each burning vein
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength
To burst man’s fetters. And they _shall_ be burst!
I have hoped, when hope seem’d frenzy; but a power
Abides in human will, when bent with strong
Unswerving energy on one great aim,
To make and rule its fortunes! I have been
A wanderer in the fulness of my years,
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas,
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands,
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near:
But we must give the signal. Now, before
The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye
Is on our hearts--whose righteous arm befriends
The arm that strikes for freedom--speak! decree
The fate of our oppressors.
_Mon._ Let them fall
When dreaming least of peril!--when the heart,
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the sword
With a thick veil of myrtle; and in halls
Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines
Red in the festal torchlight, meet we there,
And bid them welcome to the feast of death.
_Pro._ Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words
Scarce meet our ears.
_Mon._ Why, then, I must repeat
Their import. Let th’ avenging sword burst forth
In some free festal hour--and woe to him
Who first shall spare!
_Raim._ Must innocence and guilt
Perish alike?
_Mon._ Who talks of innocence?
When hath _their_ hand been stay’d for innocence?
Let them all perish!--Heaven will choose its own.
Why should _their_ children live? The earthquake whelms
Its undistinguish’d thousands, making graves
Of peopled cities in its path--and this
Is heaven’s dread justice--ay, and it is well!
Why then should we be tender, when the skies
Deal thus with man? What if the infant bleed?
Is there not power to hush the mother’s pangs?
What if the youthful bride perchance should fall
In her triumphant beauty? Should we pause?
As if death were not mercy to the pangs
Which make our lives the records of our woes?
Let them all perish! And if one be found
Amidst our band to stay th’ avenging steel
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love,
Then be his doom as theirs! [_A pause._
Why gaze ye thus?
Brethren, what means your silence!
_Sicilians._ Be it so!
If one among us stay th’ avenging steel
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs!
Pledge we our faith to this!
_Raim._ (_rushing forward indignantly._) Our faith to _this_!
No! I but _dreamt_ I heard it! Can it be?
My countrymen, my father!--is it thus
That freedom should be won? Awake!--awake
To loftier thoughts! Lift up exultingly,
On the crown’d heights and to the sweeping winds,
Your glorious banner! Let your trumpet’s blast
Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud,
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear
The stranger’s yoke no longer! What is he
Who carries on his practised lip a smile,
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature’s instinct doth recoil from,
And our blood curdle at--ay, yours and mine--
A murderer! Heard ye? Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days? O friends! a cause
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names
Of th’ elder time as rallying-words to men--
Sounds full of might and immortality!
And shall not ours be such?
_Mon._ Fond dreamer, peace!
Fame! What is fame? Will our unconscious dust
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave!
At the vain breath of praise? I tell thee, youth
Our souls are parch’d with agonising thirst,
Which must be quench’d, though death were in the draught:
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left
No other joy unblighted.
_Pro._ O my son!
The time is past for such high dreams as thine.
Thou know’st not whom we deal with: knightly faith
And chivalrous honour are but things whereon
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.
And, for our names--whate’er the deeds by which
We burst our bondage--is it not enough
That in the chronicle of days to come,
We, through a bright “For Ever,” shall be call’d
The men who saved their country?
_Raim._ Many a land
Hath bow’d beneath the yoke, and then arisen
As a strong lion rending silken bonds,
And on the open field, before high heaven,
Won such majestic vengeance as hath made
Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own
It is enough of glory to be call’d
The children of the mighty, who redeem’d
Their native soil--but not by means like these.
_Mon._ I have no children. Of Montalba’s blood
Not one red drop doth circle through the veins
Of aught that breathes? Why, what have _I_ to do
With far futurity? My spirit lives
But in the past. Away! when thou dost stand
On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree
Which the warm sun revives not, _then_ return,
Strong in thy desolation: but till then,
Thou art not for our purpose; we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.
_Raim._ Montalba! know
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice
Might yet have power among you, I would say,
Associates, leaders, _be_ avenged! but yet
As knights, as warriors!
_Mon._ Peace! have we not borne
Th’ indelible taint of contumely and chains?
We _are not_ knights and warriors. Our bright crests
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth.
Boy! we are slaves--and our revenge shall be
Deep as a slave’s disgrace.
_Raim._ Why, then, farewell:
I leave you to your counsels. He that still
Would hold his lofty nature undebased,
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.
_Pro._ And is it thus indeed?--dost _thou_ forsake
Our cause, my son!
_Raim._ O father! what proud hopes
This hour hath blighted! Yet, whate’er betide,
It is a noble privilege to look up
Fearless in heaven’s bright face--and this is mine,
And shall be still. [_Exit_ Raimond.
_Pro._ He’s gone! Why, let it be!
I trust our Sicily hath many a son
Valiant as mine. Associates! ’tis decreed
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name
The hour, the scene, the signal.
_Mon._ It should be
In the full city, when some festival
Hath gather’d throngs, and lull’d infatuate hearts
To brief security. Hark! is there not
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze?
We are betray’d.--Who art thou?
Vittoria _enters_.
_Pro._ _One_ alone
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil
That shades thy noble brow.
[_She raises her veil--the Sicilians draw back with respect._
_Sicilians._ Th’ affianced bride
Of our lost king!
_Pro._ And more, Montalba; know
Within this form there dwells a soul as high
As warriors in their battles e’er have proved,
Or patriots on the scaffold.
_Vit._ Valiant men!
I come to ask your aid. You see me, one
Whose widow’d youth hath all been consecrate