The Poems of Felicia Hemans
A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain!
The lord of nations spoke,--and forth were brought
The spoils of Salem’s devastated fane.
Thrice-holy vessels!--pure from earthly stain,
And set apart, and sanctified to Him
Who deign’d within the oracle to reign,
Reveal’d yet shadow’d; making noonday dim,
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.
They came, and louder peal’d the voice of song,
And pride flash’d brighter from the kindling eye;
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng,
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy
The Rock of Zion! Fill the nectar high,
High in the cups of consecrated gold!
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die,
And bid the censers of the temple hold
Offerings to Babel’s gods, the mighty ones of old!
Peace!--is it but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadow’d forth, the senses to appall,
Yon fearful vision? Who shall gaze again
To search its cause? Along the illumined wall,
Startling yet riveting the eyes of all,
Darkly it moves,--a hand, a human hand,
O’er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall,
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant land!
There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts!--the wine, in triumph pour’d,
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth--and lo!
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth,
Trembles before a shadow! Say not so!
--The child of dust, with guilt’s foreboding sight,
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!
“But haste ye!--bring Chaldea’s gifted seers,
The men of prescience! Haply to _their_ eyes,
Which track the future through the rolling spheres,
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.”
They come--the readers of the midnight skies,
They that gave voice to visions--but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies,
It hath no language midst the starry train,
Earth has no gifted tongue heaven’s mysteries to explain.
Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
And other inspiration!--one of those
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
And sat and wept, where Babel’s river flows.
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose
Of his pure features half o’erawed the mind;
Telling of inward mysteries--joys and woes
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined;
Depths of a being seal’d and sever’d from mankind.
Yes!--what was earth to him, whose spirit pass’d
Time’s utmost bounds? on whose unshrinking sight
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast
Their full resplendence? Majesty and might
Were in his dreams; for him the veil of light
Shrouding heaven’s inmost sanctuary and throne,
The curtain of th’ unutterably bright,
Was raised!--to him, in fearful splendour shown,
Ancient of Days! e’en Thou madest thy dread presence known.
He spoke--the shadows of the things to come
Pass’d o’er his soul:--“O King, elate in pride!
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom--
The one, the living God, by thee defied!
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried,
Hath weigh’d, and found thee wanting. ’Tis decreed
The conqueror’s hands thy kingdom shall divide,
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed!
Thy days are full: they come,--the Persian and the Mede!”
There fell a moment’s thrilling silence round--
A breathless pause!--the hush of hearts that beat,
And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound,
A gathering-cry, a tread of hurrying feet?
--’Twas but some echo in the crowded street,
Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song,
The measured dance to music wildly sweet,
That speeds the stars their joyous course along--
Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng!
Peace yet again! Hark! steps in tumult flying,
Steeds rushing on, as o’er a battle-field!
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying,
The press of multitudes that strive or yield!
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield,
Sudden as earthquake’s burst; and, blent with these,
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal’d
In their full mirth!--all deepening on the breeze,
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas!
And nearer yet the trumpet’s blast is swelling,
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry;
And, lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling,
Death--bursting on the halls of revelry!
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die,
The sword hath raged through joy’s devoted train;
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky,
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane;
Empire is lost and won--Belshazzar with the slain.[204]
[Belshazzar’s Feast had previously been published in the _Collection
of Poems from Living Authors_, edited for a benevolent purpose by Mrs
Joanna Baillie.--_Memoir_, p. 68.
“Miss Baillie’s volume contained several poems by Mrs Hemans; some
_jeux d’esprit_, by the late Miss Catherine Fanshawe, a woman of rare
wit and genius, in whose society Scott greatly delighted; and, _inter
alia_, Mr William Howison’s early ballad of Polydore, which had been
originally published under Scott’s auspices, in the Edinburgh Register
for 1810.”--Lockhart’s _Life of Scott_, vol. v. p. 287.
It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter’s own “Macduff’s Cross,”
and Southey’s lively and eccentric nursery rhymes on the “Cataract of
Lodoar,” first made their appearance in the collection referred to.]
[204] As originally written, the following additional stanzas
(afterwards omitted) concluded this poem:--
Fallen is the golden city! In the dust,
Spoil’d of her crown, dismantled of her state,
She that hath made the strength of towers her trust
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate!
She that beheld the nations at her gate,
Thronging in homage, shall be call’d no more
Lady of kingdoms! Who shall mourn her fate?
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o’er--
What widow’d land shall now her widowhood deplore?
Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned
On many waters!--thou, whose augurs read
The language of the planets, and disown’d
The mighty Name it blazons!--veil thy head,
Daughter of Babylon! The sword is red
From thy destroyer’s harvest, and the yoke
Is on thee, O most proud!--for thou hast said,
“I am, and none beside!” Th’ Eternal spoke;
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke!
But go thou forth, O Israel!--wake! rejoice!
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day!
Renew the sound of harps, th’ exulting voice,
The mirth of timbrels!--loose the chain, and say
God hath redeem’d his people!--from decay
The silent and the trampled shall arise!
Awake!--put on thy beautiful array,
O long-forsaken Zion!--to the skies
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies!
And lift thy head!--Behold thy sons returning
Redeem’d from exile, ransom’d from the chain,
Light hath revisited the house of mourning:
She that on Judah’s mountains wept in vain,
Because her children were not, dwells again
Girt with the lovely! Through thy streets once more,
City of God! shall pass the bridal train,
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour,
And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore.
THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
... “Thou strivest nobly,
When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk;
And o’er thy fall, if it be so decreed,
Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears
...
... Fame I look not for;
But to sustain, in Heaven’s all-seeing eye,
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight,
With graceful virtue and becoming pride,
The dignity and honour of a man,
Thus station’d as I am, I will do all
That man may do.”
Miss Baillie’s “Constantine Palæologus.”
I.
The fires grew pale on Rome’s deserted shrines,
In the dim grot the Pythia’s voice had died;
--Shout for the City of the Constantines,
The rising city of the billow-side,
The City of the Cross!--great ocean’s bride,
Crown’d with her birth she sprung! Long ages past,
And still she look’d in glory o’er the tide,
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
Pour’d by the burning East, all joyously and fast.
II.
Long ages past!--they left her porphyry halls
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold
Broider’d her mantle, and her castled walls
Frown’d in their strength; yet there were signs which told
The days were full. The pure high faith of old
Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep
She lay, and murmur’d if a rose-leaf’s fold
Disturb’d her dreams; and call’d her slaves to keep
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o’er the deep.
III.
But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude;
’Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling,
Breaks on the soft repose by luxury woo’d!
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude
Where the lamps glitter and the wine-cup flows;
And darker hues have stain’d the marble, strew’d
With the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose;
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.
IV.
A voice of multitudes is on the breeze,
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm’s roar
Through Ida’s giant-pines! Across the seas
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore
From Tempe’s haunted river to the shore
Of the reed-crown’d Eurotas; when, of old,
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o’er
Th’ indignant wave, which would not be controll’d,
But past the Persian’s chain in boundless freedom roll’d.
V.
And it is thus again! Swift oars are dashing
The parted waters, and a light is cast
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast.
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast,
A music of the deserts, wild and deep,
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are pass’d
Where low midst Ilion’s dust her conquerors sleep,
O’ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.
VI.
War from the West!--the snows on Thracian hills
Are loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the lands
Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rills
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands.
War from the East!--midst Araby’s lone sands,
More lonely now the few bright founts may be,
While Ismael’s bow is bent in warrior-hands
Against the Golden City of the sea.[205]
--Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!
VII.
Hear yet again, ye mighty!--Where are they
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown’d,
Leap’d up in proudly beautiful array,
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound
Of Persia’s clarion? Far and joyous round,
From the pine forests, and the mountain snows,
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound
Of the bright waves, at freedom’s voice they rose!
--Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb’s repose?
VIII.
They slumber with their swords!--the olive shades
In vain are whispering their immortal tale!
In vain the spirit of the past pervades
The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale.