The Poems of Felicia Hemans
A warrior’s sword. Those men are strangers here:[215]
The homes they never may behold again,
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear,
On laughing shores, to which their barks no more shall steer!
LIX.
Know’st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?[216]
Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron’s dyes?
--It is their own. They see their fathers’ towers
Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise:
They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes
Which long and vainly shall explore the main
For their white sails’ return: the melodies
Of that sweet land are floating o’er their brain--
Oh! what a crowded world one moment may contain!
LX.
Such moments come to thousands!--few may die
Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave,
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye
Made summer in a parent’s heart, and gave
Light to their peopled homes; o’er land and wave
Are scatter’d fast and far, as rose-leaves fall
From the deserted stem. They find a grave
Far from the shadow of th’ ancestral hall,
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all!
LXI.
But life flows on, and bears us with its tide,
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell,
Though they were those once blooming at our side
In youth’s gay home! Away! what sound’s deep swell
Comes on the wind?--It is an empire’s knell,
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night!
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite,
With a funereal voice of solitary might.
LXII.
Again, and yet again! A startling power
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear,
Full on remembrance, each eventful hour
Checkering life’s crowded path. They fill the air
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear
A mien like joy’s; and when your brides are led
From their paternal homes; and when the glare
Of burning streets on midnight’s cloud waves red,
And when the silent house receives its guest--the dead.[217]
LXIII.
But to those tones what thrilling soul was given
On that last night of empire! As a spell
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven,
On the chill’d heart of multitudes they fell.
Each cadence seem’d a prophecy, to tell
Of sceptres passing from their line away,
An angel-watcher’s long and sad farewell,
The requiem of a faith’s departing sway,
A throne’s, a nation’s dirge, a wail for earth’s decay.
LXIV.
Again, and yet again!--from yon high dome,
Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they
Who never more, to rest in mortal home,
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day,
Th’ imperial band, in close and arm’d array,
As men that from the sword must part no more,
Take through the midnight streets their silent way,
Within their ancient temple to adore,
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are o’er.
LXV.
It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyes
O’er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed
In the beleaguer’d city. Stillness lies,
With moonlight, o’er the hills and waters spread.
But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread,
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet
The last brave Constantine; and yet the tread
Of many steps is in the echoing street,
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet.
LXVI.
Their homes are luxury’s yet; why pour they thence
With a dim terror in each restless eye?
Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence,
In darkness, with its heavy wheels roll’d by,
And rock’d their palaces, as if on high
The whirlwind pass’d? From couch and joyous board
Hath the fierce phantom beckon’d them to die![218]
--No!--what are these?--for them a cup is pour’d
More dark with wrath,--_man_ comes--the spoiler and the sword.
LXVII.
Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch-light throws
On some wild form, amidst the living mass,
Hues, deeply red like lava’s, which disclose
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes!
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp’d in prayer,
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows
Betokening inward agonies, were there:
Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!
LXVIII.
But high above that scene, in bright repose,
And beauty borrowing from the torches’ gleams
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows,
But all instinct with loftier being seems,
Pale, grand, colossal: lo! th’ embodied dreams
Of yore!--Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought,
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes
Of mortal passion! Yet ’twas man that caught,
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!
LXIX.
Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome?
That Rome which witness’d, in her sceptred days,
So much of noble death? When shrine and dome,
Midst clouds of incense, rang with choral lays,
As the long triumph pass’d, with all its blaze
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne,
O sovereign forms! concentring all the rays
Of the soul’s lightnings?--did ye not adorn
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and to mourn?
LXX.
Hath it been thus?--Or did ye grace the halls,
Once peopled by the mighty? Haply there,
In your still grandeur, from the pillar’d walls
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair,[219]
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare
The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air,
The sound of lyres, the flower-crown’d goblet’s flow.
--Behold again!--high hearts make nobler offerings now!
LXXI.
The stately fane is reach’d--and at its gate
The warriors pause. On life’s tumultuous tide
A stillness falls, while he whom regal state
Hath mark’d from all, to be more sternly tried
By suffering, speaks: each ruder voice hath died,
While his implores forgiveness!--“If there be
One midst your throngs, my people! whom, in pride
Or passion, I have wrong’d; such pardon free
As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”
LXXII.
But all is silence; and a gush of tears
Alone replies! He hath not been of those
Who, fear’d by many, pine in secret fears
Of all; th’ environ’d but by slaves and foes,
To whom day brings not safety, night repose,
For they have _heard the voice cry_, “_Sleep no more!_”
Of them he hath not been, nor such as close
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o’er,
When it speaks low and kneels th’ oppressor’s throne before!
LXXIII.
_He_ hath been loved. But who may trust the love
Of a degenerate race?--in other mould
Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove
Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold,
And call him not forsaken!--thoughts untold
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread
Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold
Within its precincts! Isles and seas have shed
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th’ imperial dead.
LXXIV.
’Tis a proud vision--that most regal pile
Of ancient days! The lamps are streaming bright
From its rich altar, down each pillar’d aisle,
Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light
Develops on those walls the thousand dyes
Of the vein’d marbles, which array their height,
And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,[220]
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.
LXXV.
But gaze thou not on these; though heaven’s own hues
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie--
Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse
Arch, column, rich mosaic--pass thou by
The stately tombs, where Eastern Cæsars lie,
Beneath their trophies: pause not here; for know,
A deeper source of all sublimity
Lives in man’s bosom, than the world can show
In nature or in art--above, around, below.
LXXVI.
Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy gaze)
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone:
Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze;
Those heads unhelm’d, those kneeling forms alone,
Thus bow’d, look glorious here. The light is thrown
Full from the shrine on one, a nation’s lord,
A sufferer! but his task shall soon be done--
E’en now, as Faith’s mysterious cup is pour’d,
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored!
LXXVII.
The rite is o’er. The band of brethren part,
Once--and _but_ once--to meet on earth again!
Each, in the strength of a collected heart,
To dare what man may dare--and know ’tis vain!
The rite is o’er: and thou, majestic fane!
The glory is departed from thy brow!--
Be clothed with dust!--the Christian’s farewell strain
Hath died within these walls; thy Cross must bow,
Thy kingly tombs be spoil’d, the golden shrines laid low!
LXXVIII.
The streets grow still and lonely--and the star,
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn,
Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war,
As if young Hope with twilight’s ray were born,
Awhile the city sleeps: her throngs, o’erworn
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire.
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn
With battle-sounds;[221] the winds in sighs expire,
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam’s fire.
LXXIX.
The city sleeps! Ay! on the combat’s eve,
And by the scaffold’s brink, and midst the swell
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber’d well,
And e’en the fearful, in their dungeon cell,
Chain’d between life and death. Such rest be thine,
For conflicts wait thee still!--yet who can tell,
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine
Full on thy spirit’s dream!--Sleep, weary Constantine!
LXXX.
Doth the blast rise?--the clouded east is red,
As if a storm were gathering; and I hear
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread,
The soft and smother’d step of those that fear
Surprise from ambush’d foes. Hark! yet more near
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound;
A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere--
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground
From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound!
LXXXI.
Wake! wake! They come from sea and shore ascending
In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day!
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending,
Through tower and wall, a path for their array?
Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey,
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply;
And the earth rocks beneath their engines’ sway,
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!
LXXXII.
_They_ fail not now, the generous band, that long
Have ranged their swords around a falling throne;
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong,
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own!
--Shall those high energies be vainly shown?
No! from their towers th’ invading tide is driven
Back, like the Red Sea waves, when God had blown
With his strong winds! The dark-brow’d ranks are riven:[222]
Shout, warriors of the Cross!--for victory is of Heaven!
LXXXIII.
Stand firm! Again the Crescent host is rushing,
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep,