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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

And they are men who, to the voice of prayer, Are as the rock is to the murmur’d sigh Of summer-waves!--ay, though a father sit On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. What wouldst thou? _Con._ Mercy!--Oh! wert thou to plead But with a look, e’en yet he might be saved! If thou hast ever loved---- _Vit._ If I have loved? It is _that_ love forbids me to relent. I am what it hath made me. O’er my soul Lightning hath pass’d and sear’d it. Could I weep I then might pity--but it will not be. _Con._ Oh, thou wilt yet relent! for woman’s heart Was form’d to suffer and to melt. _Vit._ Away! Why should I pity thee? Thou wilt but prove What I have known before--and yet I live! Nature is strong, and it may all be borne-- The sick impatient yearning of the heart For that which is not; and the weary sense Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne! All, save remorse. But I will _not_ bow down My spirit to that dark power; there _was_ no guilt!-- Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt? _Ans._ Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken thought, Lending reproachful voices to a breeze, Keen lightning to a look. _Vit._ Leave me in peace! Is’t not enough that I should have a sense Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, And of unearthly whispers, haunting me With dread suggestions, but that _thy_ cold words, Old man, should gall me, too? Must all conspire Against me?----O thou beautiful spirit! wont To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, Where art _thou_ vanish’d? Was it not the thought Of thee which urged me to the fearful task, And wilt thou now forsake me? I must seek The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance, Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths; --Here I but meet despair! [_Exit_ Vittoria. _Ans._ (_to_ Constance.) Despair not _thou_, My daughter! He that purifies the heart With grief will lend it strength. _Con._ (_endeavouring to rouse herself._) Did she not say That some one was to die? _Ans._ I tell thee not Thy pangs are vain--for nature will have way. Earth must have tears: yet in a heart like thine, Faith may not yield its place. _Con._ Have I not heard Some fearful tale?--Who said that there should rest Blood on my soul? What blood? I never bore Hatred, kind father! unto aught that breathes: Raimond doth know it well. Raimond!--High heaven! It bursts upon me now! And he must die! For my sake--e’en for mine! _Ans._ Her words were strange, And her proud mind seem’d half to frenzy wrought; --Perchance this may not be. _Con._ It _must_ not be. Why do I linger here? [_She rises to depart._ _Ans._ Where wouldst thou go? _Con._ To give their stern and unrelenting hearts A victim in his stead. _Ans._ Stay! wouldst thou rush On certain death? _Con._ I may not falter now. --Is not the life of woman all bound up In her affections? What hath _she_ to do In this bleak world alone? It may be well For _man_ on his triumphal course to move, Uncumber’d by soft bonds; but we were born For love and grief. _Ans._ Thou fair and gentle thing, Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst _thou_ Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, Or face the King of Terrors? _Con._ There is strength Deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent Before her gems are found?--Oh! now I feel Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn’d To look on death for me! My heart hath given Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith As high in its devotion. [_Exit_ Constance. _Ans._ She is gone! Is it to perish?--God of mercy! lend Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save This pure and lofty creature! I will follow-- But her young footstep and heroic heart Will bear her to destruction, faster far Than I can track her path. [_Exit_ Anselmo. Scene III.--_Hall of a Public Building._ Procida, Montalba, Guido, _and others, seated as on a Tribunal_. _Pro._ The morn lower’d darkly; but the sun hath now, With fierce and angry splendour, through the clouds Burst forth, as if impatient to behold This our high triumph.--Lead the prisoner in. Raimond _is brought in, fettered and guarded_. Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here! --Is this man guilty?--Look on him, Montalba! _Mon._ Be firm. Should justice falter at a look? _Pro._ No, thou say’st well. Her eyes are filleted, Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself-- But no! I will not breathe a traitor’s name-- Speak! thou art arraign’d of treason. _Raim._ I arraign _You_, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, In the bright face of heaven; and your own hearts Give echo to the charge. Your very looks Have ta’en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, With a perturb’d and haggard wildness, back From the too-searching light. Why, what hath wrought This change on noble brows? There is a voice With a deep answer, rising from the blood Your hands have coldly shed! Ye are of those From whom just men recoil with curdling veins, All thrill’d by life’s abhorrent consciousness, And sensitive feeling of a _murderer’s_ presence. --Away! come down from your tribunal seat, Put off your robes of state, and let your mien Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you That which repugnant earth doth sicken at, More than the pestilence. That I should live To see my father shrink! _Pro._ Montalba, speak! There’s something chokes my voice--but fear me not. _Mon._ If we must plead to vindicate our acts, Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear, Most eloquent youth! What answer canst thou make To this our charge of treason? _Raim._ I will plead _That_ cause before a mightier judgment-throne, Where mercy is not guilt. But here I feel Too buoyantly the glory and the joy Of my free spirit’s whiteness; for e’en now The embodied hideousness of crime doth seem Before me glaring out. Why, I saw _thee_, Thy foot upon an aged warrior’s breast, Trampling out nature’s last convulsive heavings. And thou, _thy_ sword--O valiant chief!--is yet Red from the noble stroke which pierced at once A mother and the babe, whose little life Was from her bosom drawn!--Immortal deeds For bards to hymn! _Gui._ (_aside._) I look upon his mien, And waver. Can it be? My boyish heart Deem’d him so noble once! Away, weak thoughts! Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were _mine_, From his proud glance? _Pro._ O thou dissembler! thou, So skill’d to clothe with virtue’s generous flush The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce Believe thee guilty!--look on me, and say Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, And forge new fetters for th’ indignant land? Whose was _this_ treachery? [_Shows him papers._ Who hath promised here (Belike to appease the manès of the dead) At midnight to unfold Palermo’s gates, And welcome in the foe? Who hath done this, But thou--a tyrant’s friend? _Raim._ Who hath done this? Father!--if I may call thee by that name-- Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles Were masks that hid their daggers. _There_, perchance, May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me, I know but this--there needs no deep research To prove the truth that murderers may be traitors, Even to each other. _Pro._ (_to_ Montalba.) His unaltering cheek Still vividly doth hold its natural hue, And his eye quails not! Is this innocence? _Mon._ No! ’tis th’ unshrinking hardihood of crime. --Thou bear’st a gallant mien. But where is she Whom thou hast barter’d fame and life to save, The fair Provençal maid? What! know’st thou not That this alone were guilt, to death allied? Was’t not our law that he who spared a foe (And is she not of that detested race?) Should thenceforth be amongst us _as_ a foe? --Where hast thou borne her? speak! _Raim._ That Heaven, whose eye Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, Is with her: she is safe. _Pro._ And by that word Thy doom is seal’d. Oh, God! that I had died Before this bitter hour, in the full strength And glory of my heart! Constance _enters, and rushes to_ Raimond. _Con._ Oh! art thou found? --But yet, to find thee thus! Chains, chains for _thee_! My brave, my noble love! Off with these bonds; Let him be free as air: for I am come To be your victim now. _Raim._ Death has no pang More keen than this. Oh! wherefore art thou here I could have died so calmly, deeming thee Saved, and at peace. _Con._ At peace!--And thou hast thought Thus poorly of my love! But woman’s breast Hath strength to suffer too. Thy father sits On this tribunal; Raimond, which is he? _Raim._ My father! who hath lull’d thy gentle heart With that false hope? Beloved! gaze around-- See if thine eye can trace a father’s soul In the dark looks bent on us. [Constance, _after earnestly examining the countenances of the Judges, falls at the feet of_ Procida. _Con._ Thou art he! Nay, turn thou not away! for I beheld Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist Pass o’er thy troubled eye; and then I knew Thou wert his father! Spare him! take _my_ life! In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his, But yet mine all. Oh! _he_ hath still to run A long bright race of glory. _Raim._ Constance, peace! I look upon thee, and my failing heart Is as a broken reed. _Con._ (_still addressing_ Procida.) Oh, yet relent! If ’twas his crime to rescue _me_--behold I come to be the atonement! Let him live To crown thine age with honour. In thy heart There’s a deep conflict; but great Nature pleads With an o’ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield! --Thou _art_ his father! _Pro._ (_after a pause._) Maiden, thou’rt deceived! I am as calm as that dead pause of nature Ere the full thunder bursts. A judge is not Father or friend. Who calls this man my son? --_My_ son! Ay! thus his mother proudly smiled-- But she was noble! Traitors stand alone, Loosed from all ties. Why should I trifle thus? --Bear her away! _Raim._ (_starting forward._) And whither? _Mon._ Unto death. Why should she live, when all her race have perish’d? _Con._ (_sinking into the arms of_ Raimond.) Raimond, farewell! Oh! when thy star hath risen To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved! I died for thee. _Raim._ High Heaven! thou see’st these things, And yet endurest them! Shalt thou die for me, Purest and loveliest being?--but our fate May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold-- Her deep blue eyes are closed: should this be death