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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

Her mark for ever! _Mon._ In our passionate blindness, We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil Oft on ourselves. _Pro._ Whate’er fate hath of ruin Fall on his house! What! to resign again That freedom for whose sake our souls have now Engrain’d themselves in blood! Why, who is he That hath devised this treachery? To the scroll Why fix’d he not his name, so stamping it With an immortal infamy, whose brand Might warn men from him? Who should be so vile? Alberti?--In his eye is that which ever Shrinks from encountering mine!--But no! his race Is of our noblest. Oh! he could not shame That high descent! Urbino?--Conti?--No! They are too deeply pledged. There’s one name more! --I cannot utter it! Now shall I read Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot From man’s high mien its native royalty, And seal his noble forehead with the impress Of its own vile imaginings! Speak your thoughts, Montalba! Guido!--Who should this man be? _Mon._ Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed last night His sword to aid our foes, and turn’d its edge Against his country’s chiefs?--He that did _this_, May well be deem’d for guiltier treason ripe. _Pro._ And who is he? _Mon._ Nay, ask thy son. _Pro._ My son! What should _he_ know of such a recreant heart? Speak, Guido! thou’rt his friend! _Gui._ I would not wear The brand of such a name! _Pro._ How? what means this? A flash of light breaks in upon my soul! Is it to blast me? Yet the fearful doubt Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before, And been flung from them. Silence!--Speak not yet! I would be calm and meet the thunder-burst With a strong heart. [_A pause._ Now, what have I to hear? Your tidings? _Gui._ Briefly, ’twas your son did thus! He hath disgraced your name. _Pro._ My son did thus! Are thy words oracles, that I should search Their hidden meaning out? _What_ did my son? I have forgot the tale. Repeat it, quick! _Gui._ ’Twill burst upon thee all too soon. While we Were busy at the dark and solemn rites Of retribution; while we bathed the earth In red libations, which will consecrate The soil they mingled with to freedom’s step Through the long march of ages: ’twas his task To shield from danger a Provençal maid, Sister of him whose cold oppression stung Our hearts to madness. _Mon._ What! should she be spared To keep that name from perishing on earth? --I cross’d them in their path, and raised my sword To smite her in her champion’s arms. We fought The boy disarm’d me! And I live to tell My shame, and wreak my vengeance! _Gui._ Who but he Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt These scrolls reveal? Hath not the traitor still Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence, To win us from our purpose? All things seem Leagued to unmask him. _Mon._ Know you not there came, E’en in the banquet’s hour, from this De Couci, One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings Of all our purposed deeds? And have we not Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves The sister of that tyrant? _Pro._ There was one Who mourn’d for being childless! Let him now Feast o’er his children’s graves, and I will join The revelry! _Mon._ (_apart._) You shall be childless too! _Pro._ Was’t you, Montalba!--Now rejoice, I say! There is no name so near you that its stains Should call the fever’d and indignant blood To your dark cheek! But I will dash to earth The weight that presses on my heart, and then Be glad as thou art. _Mon._ What means this, my lord? Who hath seen gladness on Montalba’s mien? _Pro._ Why, should not all be glad who have no _sons_ To tarnish their bright name? _Mon._ I am not used To bear with mockery. _Pro._ Friend! By yon high heaven, I mock thee not! ’Tis a proud fate to live Alone and unallied. Why, what’s _alone_? A word whose sense is--_free!_--Ay, free from all The venom’d stings implanted in the heart By those it loves. Oh! I could laugh to think O’ th’ joy that riots in baronial halls, When the word comes--“A son is born!”--A _son_! They should say thus--“He that shall knit your brow To furrows, not of years--and bid your eye Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its shame, Is born, and so rejoice!” _Then_ might we feast, And know the cause! Were it not excellent? _Mon._ This is all idle. There are deeds to do: Arouse thee, Procida! _Pro._ Why, am I not Calm as immortal justice! She can strike, And yet be passionless--and thus will I. I know thy meaning. Deeds to do!--’tis well. They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth: There is a youth who calls himself my son. His name is Raimond--in his eye is light That shows like truth--but be not ye deceived! Bear him in chains before us. We will sit To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see The strength which girds our nature. Will not this Be glorious, brave Montalba? Linger not, Ye tardy messengers! for there are things Which ask the speed of storms. [_Exeunt_ Guido _and others_. Is not this well? _Mon._ ’Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud height-- (_Aside._) And then be desolate like me! My woes Will at the thought grow light. _Pro._ What now remains To be prepared? There should be solemn pomp To grace a day like this. Ay, breaking hearts Require a drapery to conceal their throbs From cold inquiring eyes; and it must be Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not Explore what lies beneath. [_Exit_ Procida. _Mon._ Now this is well! --I hate this Procida; for he hath won In all our councils that ascendency And mastery o’er bold hearts, which should have been Mine by a thousand claims. Had _he_ the strength Of wrongs like mine? No! for that name--his country-- _He_ strikes; _my_ vengeance hath a deeper fount: But there’s dark joy in this!--And fate hath barr’d My soul from every other. [_Exit_ Montalba. Scene II.--_A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins of an Ancient Temple._ Constance, Anselmo. _Con._ ’Tis strange he comes not! Is not this the still And sultry hour of noon? He should have been Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice? --“No! ’tis the shrill cicada, with glad life Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports Amidst them in the sun.” Hark! yet again! No! no! Forgive me, father! that I bring Earth’s restless griefs and passions, to disturb The stillness of thy holy solitude: My heart is full of care. _Ans._ There is no place So hallow’d as to be unvisited By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts Will speak to them in whispers? I have known Affliction too, my daughter. _Con._ Hark! his step! I know it well--he comes--my Raimond, welcome! Vittoria _enters_, Constance _shrinks back on perceiving her_. Oh, heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale. _Vit._ (_not observing her._) There is a cloud of horror on my soul; And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, Even as an echo, following the sweet close Of some divine and solemn harmony: Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound Is power to bid the tempests of the heart Sink, like a storm rebuked. _Ans._ What recent grief Darkens thy spirit thus? _Vit._ I said not grief. We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown, Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now Have changed their nature: still, I say, rejoice! There is a cause, Anselmo! We are free-- Free and avenged! Yet on my soul there hangs A darkness, heavy as the oppressive gloom Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too, There is a cause. _Ans._ How say’st thou, we are free?-- There may have raged, within Palermo’s walls, Some brief wild tumult; but too well I know They call the stranger lord. _Vit._ Who calls the _dead_ Conqueror or lord? Hush! breathe it not aloud, The wild winds must not hear it! Yet again, I tell thee we are free! _Ans._ Thine eye hath look’d On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang O’er its dark orb. Speak! I adjure thee: say, How hath this work been wrought? _Vit._ Peace! ask me not! Why shouldst _thou_ hear a tale to send thy blood Back on its fount? We cannot wake them now! The storm is in my soul, but _they_ are all At rest!--Ay, sweetly may the slaughter’d babe By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men, Who midst the slain have slumber’d oft before, Making their shield their pillow, may repose Well, now their toils are done.--Is’t not enough? _Con._ Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet There is no shade come o’er the laughing sky! --I am an outcast now. _Ans._ O Thou whose ways Clouds mantle fearfully! of all the blind But terrible ministers that work thy wrath, How much is _man_ the fiercest! Others know Their limits--yes! the earthquakes, and the storms, And the volcanoes!--he alone o’erleaps The bounds of retribution! Couldst thou gaze, Vittoria! with thy woman’s heart and eye, On such dread scenes unmoved? _Vit._ Was it for _me_ To stay th’ avenging sword? No, though it pierced My very soul! Hark! hark! what thrilling shrieks Ring through the air around me! Canst thou not Bid them be hush’d? Oh!--look not on me thus! _Ans._ Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness to the looks Which are but sad! Have all then perish’d? _all?_ Was there no mercy! _Vit._ Mercy! it hath been A word forbidden as th’ unhallow’d names Of evil powers. Yet one there was who dared To own the guilt of pity, and to aid The victims!--but in vain. Of him no more! He is a traitor, and a traitor’s death Will be his meed. _Con._ (_coming forward._) Oh, heaven!--his name, his name! Is it--it cannot be! _Vit._ (_starting._) _Thou_ here, pale girl! I deem’d thee with the dead! How hast thou ’scaped The snare! Who saved thee, last of all thy race! Was it not he of whom I spake e’en now, Raimond di Procida? _Con._ It is enough: Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. Must he too die? _Vit._ Is it e’en so? Why then, Live on--thou hast the arrow at thy heart! “Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes--” I mean not to betray thee. Thou may’st live! Why should Death bring thee his oblivious balms! _He_ visits but the happy. Didst thou ask If Raimond too must die? It is as sure As that his blood is on _thy_ head, for thou Didst win him to this treason. _Con._ When did men Call mercy _treason_? Take my life, but save My noble Raimond! _Vit._ Maiden! he must die. E’en now the youth before his judges stands;