The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Of woe and death. _2d Cit._ Ay, there was woman’s shrill And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail Of dying infants; and the half-suppress’d Deep groan of man in his last agonies! And, now and then, there swell’d upon the breeze Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far Than all the rest. _1st Cit._ Of our own fate, perchance, These awful midnight wailings may be deem’d An ominous prophecy. Should France regain Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have Stern reckoners to account with.--Hark! [_The sound of trumpets heard at a distance._ _2d Cit._ ’Twas but A rushing of the breeze. _3d Cit._ E’en now, ’tis said, The hostile bands approach. [_The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer._ _2d Cit._ Again! that sound Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells-- They come, they come! Procida _enters_. _Pro._ The foe is at your gates; But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset. Why are ye loitering here? _Cit._ My lord, we came-- _Pro._ Think ye I know not wherefore?--’twas to see A fellow-being die! Ay, ’tis a sight Man loves to look on; and the tenderest hearts Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene. For _this_ ye came. What! is our nature fierce, Or is there that in mortal agony From which the soul, exulting in its strength, Doth learn immortal lessons? Hence, and arm! Ere the night-dews descend, ye will have seen Enough of death--for this must be a day Of battle! ’Tis the hour which troubled souls Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings Which bear them up! Arm! arm! ’tis for your homes, And all that lends them loveliness--Away! [_Exeunt._ Scene III.--_Prison of_ Raimond. Raimond, Anselmo. _Raim._ And Constance then is safe! Heaven bless thee, father! Good angels bear such comfort. _Ans._ I have found A safe asylum for thine honour’d love, Where she may dwell until serener days, With Saint Rosalia’s gentlest daughters--those Whose hallow’d office is to tend the bed Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul With their soft hymns: and therefore are they call’d “Sisters of Mercy.” _Raim._ Oh! that name, my Constance! Befits thee well. E’en in our happiest days, There was a depth of tender pensiveness Far in thine eyes’ dark azure, speaking ever Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace? _Ans._ Alas! what should I say? _Raim._ Why did I ask, Knowing the deep and full devotedness Of her young heart’s affections? Oh! the thought Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams, Which should have been so tranquil!--and her soul, Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love, Even unto death will sicken. _Ans._ All that faith Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes; And still, whate’er betide, the light of heaven Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son! Is thy young spirit master’d, and prepared For nature’s fearful and mysterious change? _Raim._ Ay, father! of my brief remaining task The least part is to die! And yet the cup Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, Crown’d with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name Is--glory! Oh! my soul, from boyhood’s morn, Hath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hope To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss Of time should rise, and float upon the winds Into the far hereafter; there to be A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb, Murmuring--Awake!--Arise! But this is past! Erewhile, and it had seem’d enough of shame To sleep _forgotten_ in the dust; but now-- Oh, God!--the undying record of my grave Will be--Here sleeps a traitor!--One, whose crime, Was--to deem brave men might find nobler weapons Than the cold murderer’s dagger! _Ans._ Oh! my son, Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change Thy lot for theirs, o’er whose dark dreams will hang The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain’d soul Doth conjure from the dead! _Raim._ Thou’rt right. I would not. Yet ’tis a weary task to school the heart, Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit Into that still and passive fortitude, Which is but learn’d from suffering. Would the hour To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand! _Ans._ It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard --But no--the rush, the trampling, and the stir Of this great city, arming in her haste, Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe hath reach’d Our gates, and all Palermo’s youth, and all Her warrior men, are marshall’d, and gone forth, In that high hope which makes realities, To the red field. Thy father leads them on. _Raim._ (_starting up._) They are gone forth! my father leads them on! All--all Palermo’s youth! No! _one_ is left, Shut out from glory’s race! They are gone forth! Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad-- It burns upon the air! The joyous winds Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam Of battle’s roaring billows! On my sight The vision bursts--it maddens! ’tis the flash, The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze Of helmets in the sun! The very steed With his majestic rider glorying shares The hour’s stern joy, and waves his floating mane As a triumphant banner! Such things are Even now--and I am here! _Ans._ Alas, be calm! To the same grave ye press,--thou that dost pine Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule The fortunes of the fight. _Raim._ Ay! _Thou_ canst feel The calm thou wouldst impart; for unto thee All men alike, the warrior and the slave, Seem, as thou say’st, but pilgrims, pressing on To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same: _Their_ graves who fall in this day’s fight will be As altars to their country, visited By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths, And chanting hymns in honour of the dead: Will mine be such? Vittoria _rushes in wildly, as if pursued_. _Vit._ Anselmo! art thou found! Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice, Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross, And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives, Or shame them back to die. _Ans._ The fugitives! What words are these? The sons of Sicily Fly not before the foe? _Vit._ That I should say It is too true! _Ans._ And thou--thou bleedest, lady! _Vit._ Peace! heed not me when Sicily is lost! I stood upon the walls, and watch’d our bands, As, with their ancient royal banner spread, Onward they march’d. The combat was begun, The fiery impulse given, and valiant men Had seal’d their freedom with their blood--when, lo! That false Alberti led his recreant vassals To join th’ invader’s host. _Raim._ His country’s curse Rest on the slave for ever! _Vit._ Then distrust, E’en of their noble leaders, and dismay, That swift contagion, on Palermo’s bands Came like a deadly blight. They fled!--Oh shame! E’en now they fly! Ay, through the city gates They rush, as if all Etna’s burning streams Pursued their wingèd steps! _Raim._ Thou hast not named Their chief--Di Procida--he doth not fly? _Vit._ No! like a kingly lion in the toils, Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives: But all in vain! The few that breast the storm, With Guido and Montalba, by his side, Fight but for graves upon the battle-field. _Raim._ And I am _here_! Shall there be power, O God! In the roused energies of fierce despair, To burst my heart--and not to rend my chains? Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt To set the strong man free! _Vit._ (_after gazing upon him earnestly._) Why, ’twere a deed Worthy the fane and blessing of all time, To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida! Thou art no traitor!--from thy kindled brow Looks out thy lofty soul! Arise! go forth! And rouse the noble heart of Sicily Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste; Unbind him! Let my spirit still prevail, Ere I depart--for the strong hand of death Is on me now. [_She sinks back against a pillar._ _Ans._ Oh, heaven! the life-blood streams Fast from thy heart--thy troubled eyes grow dim. Who hath done this? _Vit._ Before the gates I stood, And in the name of him, the loved and lost, With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe, Fraught with my summons to his viewless home, Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. _Ans._ Yet, oh yet, It may not be too late. Help, help! _Vit._ (_to Raimond._) Away! Bright is the hour which brings thee liberty! _Attendants enter._ Haste, be those fetters riven! Unbar the gates, And set the captive free! (_The Attendants seem to hesitate._) Know ye not _her_ Who should have worn your country’s diadem? _Att._ O lady! we obey. [_They take off_ Raimond’s _chains. He springs up exultingly._ _Raim._ Is this no dream? Mount, eagle! thou art free! Shall I then die Not midst the mockery of insulting crowds, But on the field of banners, where the brave Are striving for an immortality? It is e’en so! Now for bright arms of proof, A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e’en yet My father may be saved! _Vit._ Away, be strong! And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm, Be--_Conradin_. [_He rushes out._ Oh! for one hour of life, To hear that name blent with th’ exulting shout Of victory! It will not be! A mightier power Doth summon me away. _Ans._ To purer worlds Raise thy last thoughts in hope. _Vit._ Yes! _he_ is there, All glorious in his beauty!--Conradin! Death parted us, and death shall reunite! He will not stay--it is all darkness now! Night gathers o’er my spirit. [_She dies._ _Ans._ She is gone! It is an awful hour which stills the heart That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, heaven! [_He kneels beside her._ Scene IV.--_Before the Gates of Palermo._ _Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates._ _Voices_, (_without._) Montjoy! Montjoy! St Denis for Anjou! Provençals, on! _Sicilians._ Fly, fly, or all is lost! Raimond _appears in the gateway armed, and carrying a banner_. _Raim._ Back, back, I say! ye men of Sicily! All is not lost! Oh! shame! A few brave hearts In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts Against the rush of thousands, and sustain’d, And made the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man, Still to be call’d so, hath achieved such deeds As heaven and earth have marvell’d at; and souls, Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come, Shall burn to hear, transmitting brightly thus Freedom from race to race! Back! or prepare Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very shrines, To bleed and die in vain! Turn!--follow me! “Conradin, Conradin!”--for Sicily His spirit fights! Remember “Conradin!”