The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Yet must _thou_ wake, though all unarm’d and pale,
Devoted City! Lo! the Moslem’s spear,
Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear!
--Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!
IX.
Be hush’d, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping!
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high,
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry,
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh
To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry,
And seize the arms which flash’d round Salem’s shrine,
And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!
X.
All still, all voiceless!--and the billow’s roar
Alone replies! Alike _their_ soul is gone
Who shared the funeral-feast on Œta’s shore,
And _theirs_ that o’er the field of Ascalon
Swell’d the crusaders’ hymn! Then gird thou on
Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour
Which waits thee ere the day’s fierce work is done
With a strong heart: so may thy helmet tower
Unshiver’d through the storm, for generous hope is power!
XI.
But linger not,--array thy men of might!
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes.
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright,
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near,
Around thy walls the sons of battle close;
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear,
Which the deep grave alone is charter’d not to hear!
XII.
Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade[206]
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high!
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade!
Snatch every brief delight,--since we must die!--
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by,
For feast in vine-wreath’d bower or pillar’d hall;
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky,
And deep and hollow is the tambour’s call,
And from the startled hand th’ untasted cup will fall.
XIII.
The night--the glorious oriental night,
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven,
With its clear stars! The red artillery’s light,
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven,
To the still firmament’s expanse hath given
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower
Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lower,
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow’d hour.
XIV.
Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,
Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth
To faith and courage! From luxurious ease
A gallant few have started! O’er the seas,
From the Seven Towers,[207] their banner waves its sign;
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze,
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was _thine_;
_Thy_ soul was on that band, devoted Constantine.
XV.
Was Rome thy parent? Didst thou catch from _her_
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye?
--That city of the throne and sepulchre
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die!
Heir of the Cæsars! did that lineage high,
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass’d
With its long march of spectred imagery,[208]
Th’ heroic mantle o’er thy spirit cast?
Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last!
XVI.
Vain dreams! Upon that spirit hath descended
Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought
Springs pure and holy! In that eye is blended
A spark, with earth’s triumphal memories fraught,
And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust,
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought
(Though through its veil seen darkly from the dust)
In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just.
XVII.
Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain,
And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ array
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain,
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,[209]
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay
O’er breathless thousands at his voice who started,
Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that sway
The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted,
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!
XVIII.
But then, around him as the javelins rush’d,
From earth to heaven swell’d up the loud acclaim;
And, ere his heart’s last free libation gush’d,
With a bright smile, the warrior caught his name
Far-floating on the winds! And Victory came,
And made the hour of that immortal deed
A life, in fiery feeling! Valour’s aim
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed
Was to be Rome’s high star!--He died--and had his meed.
XIX.
But praise--and dearer, holier praise be theirs,
Who, in the stillness and the solitude
Of hearts press’d earthwards by a weight of cares,
Uncheer’d by Fame’s proud hope, th’ ethereal food
Of restless energies, and only view’d
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne,
Is on the soul’s dark places; have subdued
And vow’d themselves with strength till then unknown,
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.
XX.
Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrined
Far in the bosom! for their deeds belong,
Not to the gorgeous faith which charm’d mankind
With its rich pomp of festival and song,
Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng;
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries
Man’s hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong
Than storm or earthquake’s voice; for _thence_ arise
All that mysterious world’s unseen sublimities.
XXI.
Well might _thy_ name, brave Constantine! awake
Such thought, such feeling!--But the scene again
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break
Through the red sulphurous mists: the camp, the plain,
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane,
With its bright cross fix’d high in crowning grace;
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main,
And, circling all with arms, that turban’d race--
The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.
XXII.
Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming
Red o’er the waters![210] Hail, deliverers, hail!
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming,
Is Hope’s own smile! They crowd the swelling sail,
On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale,
Borne, as a victor’s car! The batteries pour
Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil
Of smoke floats up the exulting winds before!
--And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore!
XXIII.
The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe’s, Asia’s coast,
All throng’d! one theatre for kingly war!
A monarch, girt with his barbaric host,
Points o’er the beach his flashing scimitar!
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar,
Hands waving banners o’er each battlement,
Decks, with their serried guns, array’d to bar
The promised aid: but hark! a shout is sent
Up from the noble barks!--the Moslem line is rent!
XXIV.
On, on through rushing flame and arrowy shower,
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way;
And, with the shadows of the vesper hour,
Furl’d their white sails, and anchor’d in the bay.
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay,
Then the Greek wines flow’d mantling in the light
Of festal halls; and there was joy!--the ray
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright--
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight.
XXV.
For vain that feeble succour! Day by day
Th’ imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play,
Comes powerful, as when heaven unbinds the deep!
--Man’s heart is mightier than the castled steep,
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled;
Man’s thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep
Flies far; and in _their_ mien, the walls who tread,
Things by the brave untold may fearfully be read!
XXVI.
It was a sad and solemn task, to hold
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer’d wall!
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll’d,
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall;
The heavy clouds were as an empire’s pall,
The giant shadows of each tower and fane
Lay like the grave’s; a low mysterious call
Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain,
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.
XXVII.
For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing,
The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song;
Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying,
The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue.
Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light along
The marble streets, all stillness--not repose;
And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong;
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those
Who see their number’d hours fast pressing to the close.
XXVIII.
But strength is from the Mightiest! There is one
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen,
Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun,
And tells in silence how the night hath been
In kingly halls a vigil: yet serene
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye;
And there is that in his collected mien,
To which the hearts of noble men reply
With fires, partaking not this frame’s mortality!
XXIX.
Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate
To pass o’er earth in brightness but alone;
High power was made their birthright, to create
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own!
A thousand echoes of their spirit’s tone
Start into life, where’er their path may be,
Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown
O’er Indian groves,[211] a wanderer wild and free,
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree!
XXX.
And it is thus with thee! thy lot is cast
On evil days, thou Cæsar!--yet the few,
That set their generous bosom to the blast
Which rocks thy throne--the fearless and the true,
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew
The free devotion of the years gone by,
When from bright dreams th’ ascendant Roman drew
Enduring strength! States vanish--ages fly--
But leave one task unchanged--to suffer and to die!
XXXI.
These are our nature’s heritage. But thou,
The crown’d with empire! thou wert call’d to share
A cup more bitter. On thy fever’d brow
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear,
Which long had pass’d away; alone to bear
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came
As a strong billow in their weight of care,
And with all this to smile! For earth-born frame
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame!
XXXII.
Her glance is on the triumph, on the field,
On the red scaffold; and where’er, in sight
Of human eyes, the human soul is steel’d
To deeds that seem as of immortal might,
Yet are proud Nature’s! But her meteor-light
Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not where
In silence, and in secret, and in night,
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair,
And rise more strong than death from its unwitness’d prayer.
XXXIII.
Men have been firm in battle; they have stood
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains,
And won the birthright of their hearths with blood,
And died rejoicing, midst their ancient fanes,