The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen,
Of fiery passions, darting o’er his face,
And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye--
But e’en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes die.
And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing,
As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse;
And veil the workings of each darker feeling,
Deep in his soul concentrating its force;
But yet he loves--Oh! who hath loved, nor known
Affection’s power exalt the bosom all its own?
The days roll on--and still Bianca’s lot
Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot
To wake her soul from life’s enchanted dream;
And, if her brow a moment’s sadness wear,
It sheds but grace more intellectual there.
A few short years, and all is changed; her fate
Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o’ercast.
Have jealous doubts transform’d to wrath and hate,
The love whose glow expression’s power surpass’d?
Lo! on Pietra’s brow a sullen gloom
Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom.
Oh! can he meet that eye, of light serene,
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth,
And view that bright intelligence of mien
Form’d to express but thoughts of loftiest worth,
Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign?
--How shall he e’er confide in aught on earth again?
In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze.
Transient, yet fill’d with meaning, stern and wild,
Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys,
Then turns away, and fixes on her child
So dark a glance as thrills a mother’s mind
With some vague fear scarce own’d, and undefined.
There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia’s shore,
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave
Gray rocks with foliage richly shadow’d o’er,
And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood,
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood.
Fair is that house of solitude--and fair
The green Maremma, far around it spread,
A sun-bright waste of beauty; yet an air
Of brooding sadness o’er the scene is shed,
No human footstep tracks the lone domain,
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain.
And silent are the marble halls that rise
’Mid founts, and cypress walks and olive groves:
All sleep in sunshine, ’neath cerulean skies,
And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves;
Yet every trace of man reveals alone,
That there life once hath flourish’d--and is gone.
There, till around them slowly, softly stealing,
The summer air, deceit in every sigh,
Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing,
Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by;
And strains of mirth and melody have flow’d
Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode.
And thither doth her Lord remorseless bear
Bianca with her child. His alter’d eye
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear,
While his dark spirit seals their doom--to die;
And the deep bodings of his victim’s heart
Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part.
It is the summer’s glorious prime--and blending
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep,
Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending,
Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep,
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright,
That lovely shore of solitude and light.
Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing,
Deck’d with young flowers the rich Maremma glows,
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing,
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows,
And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb.
Yes! ’tis _thy_ tomb, Bianca! fairest flower!
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale,
Which, o’er thee breathing with insidious power,
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale;
And fatal in its softness, day by day,
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.
But sink not yet; for there are darker woes,
Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading--
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading!
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot:
’Tis agony--but soon to be forgot!
What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring,
Than hourly to behold the spoiler’s breath
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring,
O’er Infancy’s fair cheek the blight of death?
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o’ercast
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last!
Such pangs were thine, young mother! Thou didst bend
O’er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head;
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend,
Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed,
And watch his patient, supplicating eye
Fix’d upon thee--on thee!--who couldst no aid supply!
There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe
Through those dark hours: to thee the wind’s low sigh,
And the faint murmur of the ocean’s flow,
Came like some spirit whispering--“He must die!”
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast,
His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest.
’Tis past--that fearful trial!--he is gone!
But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep;
The hour of nature’s charter’d peace comes on,
And thou shalt share thine infant’s holy sleep.
A few short sufferings yet--and death shall be
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee.
But ask not--hope not--one relenting thought
From him who doom’d thee thus to waste away,
Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught,
Broods in dark triumph o’er thy slow decay;
And coldly, sternly, silently can trace
The gradual withering of each youthful grace.
And yet the day of vain remorse shall come,
When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise
As an accusing angel--and thy tomb,
A martyr’s shrine, be hallow’d in his eyes!
Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring,
More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting.
Lift thy meek eyes to heaven--for all on earth,
Young sufferer! fades before thee. Thou art lone:
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth,
Thine hour of death is all Affliction’s own!
It is our task to suffer--and our fate
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late.
The season’s glory fades--the vintage lay
Through joyous Italy resounds no more;
But mortal loveliness hath pass’d away,
Fairer than aught in summer’s glowing store.
Beauty and youth are gone--behold them such
As death hath made them with his blighting touch!
The summer’s breath came o’er them--and they died!
Softly it came to give luxuriance birth,
Call’d forth young nature in her festal pride,
But bore to them their summons from the earth!
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze,
And wake to life and light all flowers--but these.
No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling,
O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave;
But o’er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling
The dew-drops glisten and the wild-flowers wave--
Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom,
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb!
[195] An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci’s picture of his wife Mona Lisa,
supposed to be the most perfect imitation of nature ever exhibited in
painting.
[196] A sort of consecrated war-chariot.
A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.
[The Secret Tribunal,[197] which attained such formidable power
towards the close of the fourteenth century, is mentioned in history
as an institution publicly known so early as in the year 1211. Its
members, who were called Free Judges, were unknown to the people, and
were bound by a tremendous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends
and relatives, without exception, if they had committed any offence
cognisable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation to
relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the accused, and,
in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put him to death wherever
he might be met with. The proceedings of this tribunal were carried
on at night, and with the greatest mystery; and though it was usual
to summon a culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet
persons obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned without
any citation. After condemnation, it was almost impossible for any
one to escape the vengeance of the Free Judges, for their commands
set thousands of assassins in motion, who had sworn not to spare the
life of their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to
execute the decrees of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even
should they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent
of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought admission into
the society; there were Free Judges even amongst the magistrates of
the imperial cities, and every prince had some of their Order in his
council. When a member of this tribunal was not of himself strong
enough to seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight
of him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades for the
purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making certain signs, to
lend him immediate assistance, without asking any questions. It was
usual to hang up the person condemned, with a willow branch, to the
first tree; but if circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a
poniard, they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not
been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the transactions
of the _Sages_ or _Seers_ (as they called themselves) were enveloped
in mystery, and it is even now unknown by what signs they revealed
themselves to each other. At length their power became so extensive
and redoubtable, that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary
to unite their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at
length successful.
The following account of this extraordinary association is given by
Madame de Staël:--“Des juges mystérieux, inconnus l’un à l’autre,
toujours masqués, et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punissoient dans
le silence, et gravoient seulement sur le poignard qu’ils enfoncoient
dans le sein du coupable ce mot terrible: Tribunal Secret. Ils
prévenoient le condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les fenêtres
de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur! Alors l’infortuné savoit que
par-tout, dans l’étranger, dans son concitoyen, dans son parent même,
il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes,
les campagnes, tout étoit rempli par la présence invisible de cette
conscience armée qui poursuivoit les criminels. On concoit comment
cette terrible institution pouvoit être nécessaire, dans un temps où
chaque homme étoit fort contre tous, au lieu que tous doivent être
forts contre chacun. Il falloit que la justice surprit le criminel
avant qu’il pût s’en défendre; mais cette punition qui planoit dans
les airs comme une ombre vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui
pouvoit receler le sein même d’un ami, frappoit d’une invincible
terreur.”--_L’Allemagne_, vol. ii.]
[197] See the works of Baron Bock, and Professor Kramer.
Night veil’d the mountains of the vine,
And storms had roused the foaming Rhine,
And, mingling with the pinewood’s roar,
Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore,
While glen and cavern, to their moans
Gave answer with a thousand tones:
Then, as the voice of storms appall’d