The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Contend for mastery, and the very sense
Of life is rapture--should _we_ pass, I say,
At once from such excitements to the void
And silent gloom of that which doth await us--
Were it not dreadful?
_Eri._ Banish such dark thoughts!
They ill beseem the hour.
_Vit._ There is no hour
Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe,
But they beseem it well! Why, what a slight
Impalpable bound is that, th’ unseen, which severs
Being from death! And who can tell how near
Its misty brink he stands?
_1st Noble_ (_aside._) What mean her words?
_2d Noble._ There’s some dark mystery here.
_Eri._ No more of this!
Pour the bright juice, which Etna’s glowing vines
Yield to the conquerors! And let music’s voice
Dispel these ominous dreams!--Wake, harp and song!
Swell out your triumph!
_A Messenger enters, bearing a letter._
_Mes._ Pardon, my good lord!
But this demands----
_Eri._ What means thy breathless haste,
And that ill-boding mien? Away! such looks
Befit not hours like these.
_Mes._ The Lord De Couci
Bade me bear this, and say, ’tis fraught with tidings
Of life and death.
_Vit._ (_hurriedly._) Is this a time for aught
But revelry? My lord, these dull intrusions
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene!
_Eri._ (_to the Messenger._)
Hence! Tell the Lord De Couci, we will talk
Of life and death to-morrow. [_Exit Messenger._
Let there be
Around me none but joyous looks to-day,
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth!
_A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of music,
disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &c._
_Eri._ What forms are these? What means this antic triumph?
_Vit._ ’Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not
Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody,
To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye some strain
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily!
_One of the Masquers sings._
The festal eve, o’er earth and sky,
In her sunset robe looks bright,
And the purple hills of Sicily
With their vineyards laugh in light;
From the marble cities of her plains,
Glad voices mingling swell;
--But with yet more loud and lofty strains,
They shall hail the Vesper-bell!
Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze
Their cadence wafts afar,
To float o’er the blue Sicilian seas,
As they gleam to the first pale star!
The shepherd greets them on his height,
The hermit in his cell;
--But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night,
In the sound of the Vesper-bell!
[_The bell rings._
_Eri._ It is the hour! Hark, hark!--my bride, our summons!
The altar is prepared and crown’d with flowers,
That wait----
_Vit._ The victim!
[_A tumult heard without._
Procida _and_ Montalba _enter, with others, armed_.
_Pro._ Strike! the hour is come!
_Vit._ Welcome, avengers! welcome! Now, be strong!
(_The conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush
with their swords drawn upon the Provençals._ Eribert _is
wounded, and falls_.)
_Pro._ Now hath fate reach’d thee, in thy mid career,
Thou reveller in a nation’s agonies!
(_The Provençals are driven off, pursued by the Sicilians._)
_Con._ (_supporting_ Eribert.) My brother! oh,
my brother!
_Eri._ Have I stood
A leader in the battle-fields of kings,
To perish thus at last? Ay, by these pangs,
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep,
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins,
This should be--death! In sooth, a dull exchange
For the gay bridal feast!
_Voices_ (_without._) Remember Conradin!--spare none!--spare none!
_Vit._ (_throwing off her bridal wreath and ornaments._)
This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast,
In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling
To earth for ever! And it is such joy,
As if a captive from his dull cold cell
Might soar at once, on charter’d wing, to range
The realms of starr’d infinity! Away!
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath! The hour
For which stem patience ne’er kept watch in vain
Is come; and I may give my bursting heart
Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert!
Believe in retribution! What! proud man!
Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem heaven slept?
“Or that the unseen, immortal ministers,
Ranging the world to note e’en purposed crime
In burning characters, had laid aside
Their everlasting attributes for _thee_?”
O blind security! He in whose dread hand
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach’d
His pyramid height of power; that so his fall
May with more fearful oracles make pale
Man’s crown’d oppressors!
_Con._ Oh! reproach him not!
His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink
Of that dim world where passion may not enter.
Leave him in peace.
_Voices_ (_without._) Anjou! Anjou!--De Couci, to the rescue!
_Eri._ (_half raising himself._)
My brave Provençals! do ye combat still?
And I your chief am here! Now, now I feel
That death indeed is bitter!
_Vit._ Fare thee well!
Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile
Have look’d on man’s last pangs, thou shouldst by this,
Be perfect how to die!
_Exit_ Vittoria.
Raimond _enters_.
_Raim._ Away, my Constance!
Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands
Are scatter’d far and wide. A little while
And thou shalt be in safety. Know’st thou not
That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man
Anselmo?--he whose hermitage is rear’d
Mid some old temple’s ruins? Round the spot
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm,
’Tis hallow’d as a sanctuary wherein
Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm
Have spent its fury. Haste!
_Con._ I will not fly!
While in his heart there is one throb of life,
One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave
The brother of my youth to perish thus,
Without one kindly bosom to sustain
His dying head.
_Eri._ The clouds are darkening round.
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear
That summon me--to what? But I have been
Used to command!--Away! I will not die,
But on the field----
[_He dies_.
_Con._ (_kneeling by him._) O Heaven! be merciful
As thou art just!--for he is now where naught
But mercy can avail him.--It is past!
Guido _enters with his sword drawn._
_Gui._ (_to_ Raimond.)
I’ve sought thee long--why art thou lingering here?
Haste, follow me! Suspicion with thy name
Joins that word--_Traitor!_
_Raim._ Traitor!--Guido?
_Gui._ Yes!
Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms,
After vain conflict with a people’s wrath,
De Couci hath escaped? And there are those
Who murmur that from _thee_ the warning came
Which saved him from our vengeance. But e’en yet,
In the red current of Provençal blood,
That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword,
And follow me!
_Raim._ And _thou_ couldst doubt me, Guido!
’Tis come to this!--Away! mistrust me still.
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine.
Thou knowst me not!
_Gui._ Raimond di Procida!--
If thou art he whom once I deem’d so noble--
Call me thy friend no more! [_Exit_ Guido.
_Raim._ (_after a pause._) Rise, dearest, rise!
Thy duty’s task hath nobly been fulfill’d,
E’en in the face of death; but all is o’er,
And this is now no place where nature’s tears
In quiet sanctity may freely flow.
--Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar
Of fast-advancing billows; and for _thee_
I shame not thus to tremble.--Speed! oh, speed!
_Exeunt._
ACT IV.
Scene I.--_A Street in Palermo._
Procida _enters_.
_Pro._ How strange and deep a stillness loads the air,
As with the power of midnight! Ay, where death
Hath pass’d, there should be silence. But this hush
Of nature’s heart, this breathlessness of all things,
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky,
With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds,
Brooding in sullen masses o’er my spirit,
Weighs like an omen! Wherefore should this be?
Is not our task achieved--the mighty work
Of our deliverance! Yes; I should be joyous:
But this our feeble nature, with its quick
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down
Th’ ascending soul. And I have fearful bodings
That treachery lurks amongst us.--Raimond! Raimond!
Oh, guilt ne’er made a mien like his its garb!
It cannot be!
Montalba, Guido, _and other Sicilians enter_.
_Pro._ Welcome! we meet in joy!
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming
The kingly port of freemen! Who shall dare,
After this proof of slavery’s dread recoil,
To weave us chains again? Ye have done well.
_Mon._ We _have_ done well. There needs no choral song,
No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth
Our stern exploits. The _silence_ of our foes
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest,
Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task
Is still but half achieved, since with his bands
De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes
Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required
To make the mighty sacrifice complete.--
Where is thy son?
_Pro._ I know not. Once last night
He cross’d my path, and with one stroke beat down
A sword just raised to smite me, and restored
My own, which in that deadly strife had been
Wrench’d from my grasp; but when I would have press’d him
To my exulting bosom, he drew back,
And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile,
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour
I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask?
_Mon._ It matters not. We have deep things to speak of.
Know’st thou that we have traitors in our councils?
_Pro._ I know some voice in secret must have warn’d
De Couci, or his scatter’d bands had ne’er
So soon been marshall’d, and in close array
Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard aught
That may develop this?
_Mon._ The guards we set
To watch the city gates, have seized, this morn,
One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step,
Betray’d his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore
(Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him--
The fugitive Provençal. Read and judge!
_Pro._ Where is this messenger?
_Mon._ Where _should_ he be?--
They slew him in their wrath.
_Pro._ Unwisely done!
Give me the scrolls. [_He reads._
Now, if there be such things
As may to death add sharpness, yet delay
The pang which gives release; if there be power
In execration, to call down the fires
Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts
But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap’d
Upon the traitor’s head!--Scorn make his name