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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held In token and memorial of the dead. Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth, But to behold one great atonement made, And keep one name from fading in men’s hearts, A tyrant’s will should force me to profane Heaven’s altar with unhallow’d vows--and live Stung by the keen unutterable scorn Of my own bosom, live--another’s bride? _Sicilians._ Never! oh, never! Fear not, noble lady! Worthy of Conradin! _Vit._ Yet hear me still-- _His_ bride, that Eribert’s, who notes our tears With his insulting eye of cold derision, And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works, Would number e’en our agonies as crimes. --Say, is this meet? _Gui._ We deem’d these nuptials, lady, Thy willing choice; but ’tis a joy to find Thou’rt noble still. Fear not; by all our wrongs, This shall not be. _Pro._ Vittoria, thou art come To ask our aid--but we have need of thine. Know, the completion of our high designs Requires--a festival; and it must be Thy bridal! _Vit._ Procida! _Pro._ Nay, start not thus. ’Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair With festal garlands, and to bid the song Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No--nor yet To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, Where death, not love, awaits him! _Vit._ Can my soul Dissemble thus? _Pro._ We have no other means Of winning our great birthright back from those Who have usurp’d it, than so lulling them Into vain confidence, that they may deem All wrongs forgot; and this may be best done By what I ask of thee. _Mon._ Then we will mix With the flush’d revellers, making their gay feast The harvest of the grave. _Vit._ A bridal day! --Must it be so? Then, chiefs of Sicily, I bid you to my nuptials! but be there With your bright swords unsheathed, for thus alone _My_ guests should be adorn’d. _Pro._ And let thy banquet Be soon announced; for there are noble men Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase Reprieve with other blood. _Vit._ Be it then the day Preceding that appointed for their doom. _Gui._ My brother! thou shalt live! Oppression boasts No gift of prophecy!--It but remains To name our signal, chiefs! _Mon._ The Vesper-bell! _Pro._ Even so--the Vesper-bell, whose deep-toned peal Is heard o’er land and wave. Part of our band, Wearing the guise of antic revelry, Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, The halls of Eribert; and at the hour Devoted to the sword’s tremendous task, I follow with the rest. The Vesper-bell! That sound shall wake th’ avenger; for ’tis come, The time when power is in a voice, a breath, To burst the spell which bound us. But the night Is waning, with her stars, which one by one Warn us to part. Friends to your homes!--your _homes_? _That_ name is yet to win. Away! prepare For our next meeting in Palermo’s walls. The Vesper-bell! Remember! _Sicilians._ Fear us not The Vesper-bell! [_Exeunt omnes._ ACT III. Scene I.--_Apartment in a Palace._ Eribert, Vittoria. _Vit._ Speak not of love--it is a word with deep Strange magic in its melancholy sound, To summon up the dead; and they should rest, At such an hour, forgotten. There are things We must throw from us, when the heart would gather Strength to fulfil its settled purposes; Therefore, no more of love! But if to robe This form in bridal ornaments--to smile (I _can_ smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand At th’ altar by thy side;--if this be deem’d Enough, it shall be done. _Eri._ My fortune’s star Doth rule th’ ascendant still! (_Apart._)--If not of love, Then pardon, lady, that I speak of _joy_, And with exulting heart---- _Vit._ There _is_ no joy! --Who shall look through the far futurity, And, as the shadowy visions of events Develop on his gaze, midst their dim throng, Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, “This will bring happiness?” Who shall do this? Who, thou and I, and all! There’s One, who sits In His own bright tranquillity enthroned, High o’er all storms, and looking far beyond Their thickest clouds! but we, from whose dull eyes A grain of dust hides the great sun--e’en we Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers, Of future joy and grief! _Eri._ Thy words are strange. Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria! Oh! if my cares---- _Vit._ I know a day shall come Of peace to all. Ev’n from my darken’d spirit Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised, Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down Serenely to repose. Of this no more. I have a boon to ask. _Eri._ Command my power, And deem it thus most honour’d. _Vit._ Have I then Soar’d such an eagle pitch, as to command The mighty Eribert?--And yet ’tis meet; For I bethink me now, I should have worn A _crown_ upon this forehead. Generous lord! Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound Whose tones, o’er earth and ocean sweetly bearing A sense of deep repose, have lull’d me oft To peace--which is forgetfulness; I mean The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be The summons to our bridal. Hear you not? To our fair bridal! _Eri._ Lady, let your will Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless’d, Proving my homage thus. _Vit._ Why, then, ’tis mine To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, And I may be content. Yet much remains For thought to brood on, and I would be left Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert! (Whom I command so absolutely,) now Part we a few brief hours; and doubt not, when I’m at thy side once more, but I shall stand There--to the last! _Eri._ Your smiles are troubled, lady-- May they ere long be brighter! Time will seem Slow till the Vesper-bell. _Vit._ ’Tis lovers’ phrase To say--Time lags; and therefore meet for you; But with an equal pace the hours move on, Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, Pleasure or--fate. _Eri._ Be not so full of thought On such a day. Behold, the skies themselves Look on my joy with a triumphant smile Unshadow’d by a cloud. _Vit._ ’Tis very meet That heaven (which loves the just) should wear a smile In honour of his fortunes. Now, my lord, Forgive me if I say farewell until Th’ appointed hour. _Eri._ Lady, a brief farewell. [_Exeunt separately._ Scene II.--_The Sea-shore._ Procida, Raimond. _Pro._ And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this, our daring enterprise? _Raim._ O father! I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word Hath to my soul been as a trumpet’s voice, Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds Whereby ’twas won--the high exploits, whose tale Bids the heart burn, were of another cast Than such as thou requirest. _Pro._ Every deed Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim The freedom of our country; and the sword Alike is honour’d in the patriot’s hand, Searching, midst warrior hosts, the heart which gave Oppression birth, or flashing through the gloom Of the still chamber, o’er its troubled couch, At dead of night. _Raim._ (_turning away._) There is no path but one For noble natures. _Pro._ Wouldst thou ask the man Who to the earth hath dash’d a nation’s chains, Rent as with heaven’s own lightning, by what _means_ The glorious end was won? Go, swell th’ acclaim! Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path, To that most bright and sovereign destiny, Hath led o’er trampled thousands, be it call’d A stem necessity, but not a crime! _Raim._ Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn’d, Ev’n from thy voice. The high remembrances Of other days are stirring in the heart Where _thou_ didst plant them; and they speak of men Who needed no vain sophistry to gild Acts that would bear heaven’s light--and such be mine! O father! is it yet too late to draw The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts On our most righteous cause? _Pro._ What wouldst thou do? _Raim._ I would go forth, and rouse th’ indignant land To generous combat. Why should freedom strike Mantled with darkness? Is there not more strength Ev’n in the waving of her single arm Than hosts can wield against her? _I_ would rouse That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on To its proud sphere--the stormy field of fight! _Pro._ Ay! and give time and warning to the foe To gather all his might! It _is_ too late. There is a work to be this eve begun When rings the Vesper-bell; and, long before To-morrow’s sun hath reach’d i’ th’ noonday heaven His throne of burning glory, every sound Of the Provençal tongue within our walls, As by one thunderstroke--(you are pale, my son)-- Shall be for ever silenced! _Raim._ What! such sounds As falter on the lip of infancy, In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed By the fond mother as she lulls her babe? Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air Pour’d by the timid maid? Must all alike Be still’d in death? and wouldst thou tell my heart There is no crime in _this_? _Pro._ Since thou dost feel Such horror of our purpose, in thy power Are means that might avert it. _Raim._ Speak! oh speak! _Pro._ How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us! _Raim._ Father! I can bear-- Ay, proudly woo--the keenest questioning Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems To claim a part of heaven’s dread royalty, --The power that searches thought. _Pro._ (_after a pause._) Thou hast a brow Clear as the day--and yet I doubt thee, Raimond! Whether it be that I have learn’d distrust From a long look through man’s deep-folded heart; Whether my paths have been so seldom cross’d By honour and fair mercy, that they seem But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus My unaccustom’d gaze: howe’er it be-- I doubt thee! See thou waver not--take heed. Time lifts the veil from all things! [_Exit_ Procida. _Raim._ And ’tis thus Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith We clothed our idols, drop! Oh, bitter day! When, at the crushing of our glorious world, We start, and find men thus! Yet be it so! Is not my soul still powerful in _itself_ To realise its dreams? Ay, shrinking not From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well Undaunted meet my father’s. But, away! _Thou_ shalt be saved, sweet Constance!--Love is yet Mightier than vengeance. [_Exit_ Raimond. Scene III.----_Gardens of a Palace._ Constance _alone_. _Con._ There was a time when my thoughts wander’d not Beyond these fairy scenes!--when but to catch The languid fragrance of the southern breeze From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest,