The Poems of Felicia Hemans
The peasant of the Odenwald,[198]
Shuddering he deem’d, that, far on high,
’Twas the wild huntsman rushing by,
Riding the blast with phantom speed,
With cry of hound and tramp of steed,
While his fierce train, as on they flew,
Their horns in savage chorus blew,
Till rock, and tower, and convent round,
Rang to the shrill unearthly sound.
Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced
The forest paths, in secret haste;
Far other sounds were on the night,
Though lost amidst the tempest’s might,
That fill’d the echoing earth and sky
With its own awful harmony.
There stood a lone and ruin’d fane,
Far in the Odenwald’s domain,
Midst wood and rock, a deep recess
Of still and shadowy loneliness.
Long grass its pavement had o’ergrown,
The wild-flower waved o’er the altar stone,
The night-wind rock’d the tottering pile,
As it swept along the roofless aisle,
For the forest boughs and the stormy sky
Were all that minster’s canopy.
Many a broken image lay
In the mossy mantle of decay,
And partial light the moonbeams darted
O’er trophies of the long-departed;
For there the chiefs of other days,
The mighty, slumber’d, with their praise:
’Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven
A tribute to their bier had given,
Long since a sound but the moaning blast
Above their voiceless home had pass’d.
--So slept the proud, and with them all
The records of their fame and fall;
Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest,
Adorn’d the dwelling of their rest,
And emblems of the Holy Land
Were carved by some forgotten hand.
But the helm was broke, the shield defaced,
And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced;
And the scatter’d leaves of the northern pine
Half hid the palm of Palestine.
So slept the glorious--lowly laid,
As the peasant in his native shade;
Some hermit’s tale, some shepherd’s rhyme,
All that high deeds could win from time!
What footsteps move, with measured tread,
Amid those chambers of the dead?
What silent, shadowy beings glide
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside,
Peopling the wild and solemn scene
With forms well suited to its mien?
Wanderer, away! let none intrude
On their mysterious solitude!
Lo! these are they, that awful band,
The secret Watchers of the land,
They that, unknown and uncontroll’d,
Their dark and dread tribunal hold.
They meet not in the monarch’s dome,
They meet not in the chieftain’s home;
But where, unbounded o’er their heads,
All heaven magnificently spreads,
And from its depths of cloudless blue
The eternal stars their deeds may view!
Where’er the flowers of the mountain sod
By roving foot are seldom trod;
Where’er the pathless forest waves,
Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves;
Where’er wild legends mark a spot,
By mortals shunn’d, but unforgot,
There, circled by the shades of night,
They judge of crimes that shrink from light;
And guilt, that deems its secret known
To the One unslumbering eye alone,
Yet hears their name with a sudden start,
As an icy touch had chill’d its heart,
For the shadow of th’ avenger’s hand
Rests dark and heavy on the land.
There rose a voice from the ruin’s gloom,
And woke the echoes of the tomb,
As if the noble hearts beneath
Sent forth deep answers to its breath.
“When the midnight stars are burning,
And the dead to earth returning;
When the spirits of the blest
Rise upon the good man’s rest;
When each whisper of the gale
Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale;
In the shadow of the hour
That o’er the soul hath deepest power,
Why thus meet we, but to call
For judgment on the criminal?
Why, but the doom of guilt to seal,
And point th’ avenger’s holy steel?
A fearful oath has bound our souls,
A fearful power our arm controls!
There is an ear awake on high
E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die;
There is an eye whose beam pervades
All depths, all deserts, and all shades:
That ear hath heard our awful vow,
That searching eye is on us now!
Let him whose heart is unprofaned,
Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain’d--
Let him, whose thoughts no record keep
Of crimes in silence buried deep,
Here, in the face of heaven, accuse
The guilty whom its wrath pursues!”
’Twas hush’d--that voice of thrilling sound!
And a dead silence reign’d around.
Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form
Tower’d like a phantom in the storm;
Gathering his mantle, as a cloud,
With its dark folds his face to shroud,
Through pillar’d arches on he pass’d,
With stately step, and paused at last,
Where, on the altar’s mouldering stone,
The fitful moonbeam brightly shone;
Then on the fearful stillness broke
Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke:
“Before that eye whose glance pervades
All depths, all deserts, and all shades;
Heard by that ear awake on high
E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die--
With all a mortal’s awe I stand,
Yet with pure heart and stainless hand.
To heaven I lift that hand, and call
For judgment on the criminal;
The earth is dyed with bloodshed’s hues--
It cries for vengeance. I accuse!”
“Name thou the guilty! say for whom
Thou claim’st th’ inevitable doom!
“Albert of Lindheim--to the skies
The voice of blood against him cries;
A brother’s blood--his hand is dyed
With the deep stain of fratricide.
One hour, one moment, hath reveal’d
What years in darkness had conceal’d,
But all in vain--the gulf of time
Refused to close upon his crime;
And guilt that slept on flowers shall know
The earthquake was but hush’d below!
--Here, where amidst the noble dead,
Awed by their fame, he dare not tread;
Where, left by him to dark decay,
Their trophies moulder fast away,
Around us and beneath us lie
The relics of his ancestry--
The chiefs of Lindheim’s ancient race,
Each in his last low dwelling-place.
But one is absent--o’er _his_ grave
The palmy shades of Syria wave;
Far distant from his native Rhine,
He died unmourn’d, in Palestine!
The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land,
To perish by a brother’s hand!
Peace to his soul! though o’er his bed
No dirge be pour’d, no tear be shed,
Though all he loved his name forget,
_They_ live who shall avenge him yet!”
“Accuser! how to thee alone
Became the fearful secret known?”
“There is an hour when vain remorse
First wakes in her eternal force;
When pardon may not be retrieved,
When conscience will not be deceived.
He that beheld the victim bleed,
Beheld, and aided in the deed--
When earthly fears had lost their power
Reveal’d the tale in such an hour,
Unfolding, with his latest breath,
All that gave keener pangs to death.”
“By Him, th’ All-seeing and Unseen,
Who is for ever, and hath been,
And by th’ Atoner’s cross adored,
And by th’ avenger’s holy sword,
By truth eternal and divine,
Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?”
--“The cross upon my heart is prest,
I hold the dagger to my breast;
If false the tale whose truth I swear,
Be mine the murderer’s doom to bear!”
Then sternly rose the dread reply--
“His days are number’d--he must die!
There is no shadow of the night
So deep as to conceal his flight;
Earth doth not hold so lone a waste
But there his footsteps shall be traced;
Devotion hath no shrine so blest
That there in safety he may rest.
Where’er he treads, let Vengeance there
Around him spread her secret snare!
In the busy haunts of men,
In the still and shadowy glen,
When the social board is crown’d,
When the wine-cup sparkles round;
When his couch of sleep is prest,
And a dream his spirit’s guest;
When his bosom knows no fear,
Let the dagger still be near,
Till, sudden as the lightning’s dart,
Silent and swift it reach his heart!
One warning voice, one fearful word,
Ere morn beneath his towers be heard,
Then vainly may the guilty fly,
Unseen, unaided,--he must die!
Let those he loves prepare his tomb,
Let friendship lure him to his doom!
Perish his deeds, his name, his race,
Without a record or a trace!
Away! be watchful, swift, and free,
To wreak th’ invisible’s decree.
’Tis pass’d--th’ avenger claims his prey:
On to the chase of death--away!”
And all was still. The sweeping blast
Caught not a whisper as it pass’d;
The shadowy forms were seen no more,
The tombs deserted as before;
And the wide forest waved immense
In dark and lone magnificence.
In Lindheim’s towers the feast had closed
The song was hush’d, the bard reposed;
Sleep settled on the weary guest,
And the castle’s lord retired to rest.
To rest! The captive doom’d to die
May slumber, when his hour is nigh;
The seaman, when the billows foam,
Rock’d on the mast, may dream of home;
The warrior, on the battle’s eve,
May win from care a short reprieve:
But earth and heaven alike deny
Their peace to guilt’s o’erwearied eye;
And night, that brings to grief a calm,
To toil a pause, to pain a balm,
Hath spells terrific in her course,
Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse--
Voices, that long from earth had fled,
And steps and echoes from the dead;
And many a dream whose forms arise
Like a darker world’s realities!
Call them not vain illusions--born,
But for the wise and brave to scorn!
Heaven, that the penal doom defers,
Hath yet its thousand ministers,
To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown,
In shade, in silence, and alone,
Concentrating in one brief hour
Ages of retribution’s power!
--If thou wouldst know the lot of those,
Whose souls are dark with guilty woes,
Ah! seek them not where pleasure’s throng
Are listening to the voice of song;
Seek them not where the banquet glows,
And the red vineyard’s nectar flows:
There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek,
The eye of feverish joy may speak,
And smiles, the ready mask of pride,
The canker-worm within may hide.
Heed not those signs! they but delude;
Follow, and mark their solitude!
The song is hush’d, the feast is done,
And Lindheim’s lord remains alone--
Alone in silence and unrest,
With the dread secret of his breast;
Alone with anguish and with fear,
--There needs not an avenger here!
Behold him!--Why that sudden start?
Thou hear’st the beating of thy heart!
Thou hear’st the night-wind’s hollow sigh,
Thou hear’st the rustling tapestry!
No sound but these may near thee be;
Sleep! all things earthly sleep--but thee.
No! there are murmurs on the air,
And a voice is heard that cries--“Despair!”
And he who trembles fain would deem
’Twas the whisper of a waking dream.
Was it but this? Again, ’tis there:
Again is heard--“Despair! Despair!”
’Tis past--its tones have slowly died
In echoes on the mountain side;
Heard but by him, they rose, they fell.
He knew their fearful meaning well,
And shrinking from the midnight gloom,
As from the shadow of the tomb,
Yet shuddering, turn’d in pale dismay,
When broke the dawn’s first kindling ray,