Poems

PATERNAL LOVE

("Ma fille! ô seul bonheur.")

{LE ROI S'AMUSE, Act II}

 
     My child! oh, only blessing Heaven allows me!
     Others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends,
     A wife, a husband, vassals, followers,
     Ancestors, and allies, or many children.
     I have but thee, thee only. Some are rich;
     Thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches.
     And some believe in angels; I believe
     In nothing but thy soul. Others have youth,
     And woman's love, and pride, and grace, and health;
     Others are beautiful; thou art my beauty,
     Thou art my home, my country and my kin,
     My wife, my mother, sister, friend – my child!
     My bliss, my wealth, my worship, and my law,
     My Universe! Oh, by all other things
     My soul is tortured. If I should ever lose thee —
     Horrible thought! I cannot utter it.
     Smile, for thy smile is like thy mother's smiling.
     She, too, was fair; you have a trick like her,
     Of passing oft your hand athwart your brow
     As though to clear it. Innocence still loves
     A brow unclouded and an azure eye.
     To me thou seem'st clothed in a holy halo,
     My soul beholds thy soul through thy fair body;
     E'en when my eyes are shut, I see thee still;
     Thou art my daylight, and sometimes I wish
     That Heaven had made me blind that thou might'st be
     The sun that lighted up the world for me.
 

FANNY KEMBLE-BUTLER.

THE DEGENERATE GALLANTS

("Mes jeunes cavaliers.")

{HERNANI, Act I., March, 1830.}

 
     What business brings you here, young cavaliers?
     Men like the Cid, the knights of bygone years,
     Rode out the battle of the weak to wage,
     Protecting beauty and revering age.
     Their armor sat on them, strong men as true,
     Much lighter than your velvet rests on you.
     Not in a lady's room by stealth they knelt;
     In church, by day, they spoke the love they felt.
     They kept their houses' honor bright from rust,
     They told no secret, and betrayed no trust;
     And if a wife they wanted, bold and gay,
     With lance, or axe, or falchion, and by day,
     Bravely they won and wore her. As for those
     Who slip through streets when honest men repose,
     With eyes turned to the ground, and in night's shade
     The rights of trusting husbands to invade;
     I say the Cid would force such knaves as these
     To beg the city's pardon on their knees;
     And with the flat of his all-conquering blade
     Their rank usurped and 'scutcheon would degrade.
     Thus would the men of former times, I say,
     Treat the degenerate minions of to-day.
 

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE.)

THE OLD AND THE YOUNG BRIDEGROOM

("L'homme auquel on vous destina.")

{HERNANI, Act I.}

 
     Listen. The man for whom your youth is destined,
     Your uncle, Ruy de Silva, is the Duke
     Of Pastrana, Count of Castile and Aragon.
     For lack of youth, he brings you, dearest girl,
     Treasures of gold, jewels, and precious gems,
     With which your brow might outshine royalty;
     And for rank, pride, splendor, and opulence,
     Might many a queen be envious of his duchess!
     Here is one picture. I am poor; my youth
     I passed i' the woods, a barefoot fugitive.
     My shield, perchance, may bear some noble blazons
     Spotted with blood, defaced though not dishonored.
     Perchance I, too, have rights, now veiled in darkness, —
     Rights, which the heavy drapery of the scaffold
     Now hides beneath its black and ample folds;
     Rights which, if my intent deceive me not,
     My sword shall one day rescue. To be brief: —
     I have received from churlish Fortune nothing
     But air, light, water, – Nature's general boon.
     Choose, then, between us two, for you must choose; —
     Say, will you wed the duke, or follow me?
 
 
       DONNA SOL. I'll follow you.
 
 
       HERN. What, 'mongst my rude companions,
     Whose names are registered in the hangman's book?
     Whose hearts are ever eager as their swords,
     Edged by a personal impulse of revenge?
     Will you become the queen, dear, of my band?
     Will you become a hunted outlaw's bride?
     When all Spain else pursued and banished me, —
     In her proud forests and air-piercing mountains,
     And rocks the lordly eagle only knew,
     Old Catalonia took me to her bosom.
     Among her mountaineers, free, poor, and brave,
     I ripened into manhood, and, to-morrow,
     One blast upon my horn, among her hills,
     Would draw three thousand of her sons around me.
     You shudder, – think upon it. Will you tread
     The shores, woods, mountains, with me, among men
     Like the dark spirits of your haunted dreams, —
     Suspect all eyes, all voices, every footstep, —
     Sleep on the grass, drink of the torrent, hear
     By night the sharp hiss of the musket-ball
     Whistling too near your ear, – a fugitive
     Proscribed, and doomed mayhap to follow me
     In the path leading to my father's scaffold?
 
 
       DONNA SOL. I'll follow you.
 
 
       HERN.           This duke is rich, great, prosperous,
     No blot attaches to his ancient name.
     He is all-powerful. He offers you
     His treasures, titles, honors, with his hand.
 
 
       DONNA SOL. We will depart to-morrow. Do not blame
     What may appear a most unwomanly boldness.
 

CHARLES SHERRY.

THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE

DONNA SOL to HERNANI

("Nous partirons demain.")

{HERNANI, ACT I.}

 
     To mount the hills or scaffold, we go to-morrow:
     Hernani, blame me not for this my boldness.
     Art thou mine evil genius or mine angel?
     I know not, but I am thy slave. Now hear me:
     Go where thou wilt, I follow thee. Remain,
     And I remain. Why do I thus? I know not.
     I feel that I must see thee – see thee still —
     See thee for ever. When thy footstep dies,
     It is as if my heart no more would beat;
     When thou art gone, I am absent from myself;
     But when the footstep which I love and long for
     Strikes on mine ear again – then I remember
     I live, and feel my soul return to me.
 

G. MOIR.

THE LOVER'S SACRIFICE

("Fuyons ensemble.")

{HERNANI, Act II.}

 
       DONNA SOL.                  Together let us fly!
 
 
       HERNANI. Together? No! the hour is past for flight.
     Dearest, when first thy beauty smote my sight,
     I offered, for the love that bade me live,
     Wretch that I was, what misery had to give:
     My wood, my stream, my mountain. Bolder grown,
     By thy compassion to an outlaw shown,
     The outlaw's meal beneath the forest shade,
     The outlaw's couch far in the greenwood glade,
     I offered. Though to both that couch be free,
     I keep the scaffold block reserved for me.
 
 
       DONNA SOL. And yet you promised?
 
 
       HERNANI (falls on his knee.)  Angel! in this hour,
     Pursued by vengeance and oppressed by power —
     Even in this hour when death prepares to close
     In shame and pain a destiny of woes —
     Yes, I, who from the world proscribed and cast,
     Have nursed one dark remembrance of the past,
     E'en from my birth in sorrow's garment clad,
     Have cause to smile and reason to be glad;
     For you have loved the outlaw and have shed
     Your whispered blessings on his forfeit head.
 
 
       DONNA SOL. Let me go with you.
 
 
       HERNANI.                      No! I will not rend
     From its fair stem the flower as I descend.
     Go – I have smelt its perfume. Go – resume
     All that this grasp has brushed away of bloom.
     Wed the old man, – believe that ne'er we met;
     I seek my shade – be happy, and forget!
 

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE).

THE OLD MAN'S LOVE

("Dérision! que cet amour boiteux.")

{HERNANI, Act III.}

 
     O mockery! that this halting love
     That fills the heart so full of flame and transport,
     Forgets the body while it fires the soul!
     If but a youthful shepherd cross my path,
     He singing on the way – I sadly musing,
     He in his fields, I in my darksome alleys —
     Then my heart murmurs: "O, ye mouldering towers!
     Thou olden ducal dungeon! O how gladly
     Would I exchange ye, and my fields and forests,
     Mine ancient name, mine ancient rank, my ruins —
     My ancestors, with whom I soon shall lie,
     For his thatched cottage and his youthful brow!"
     His hair is black – his eyes shine forth like thine.
     Him thou might'st look upon, and say, fair youth,
     Then turn to me, and think that I am old.
     And yet the light and giddy souls of cavaliers
     Harbor no love so fervent as their words bespeak.
     Let some poor maiden love them and believe them,
     Then die for them – they smile. Aye! these young birds,
     With gay and glittering wing and amorous song,
     Can shed their love as lightly as their plumage.
     The old, whose voice and colors age has dimmed,
     Flatter no more, and, though less fair, are faithful.
     When we love, we love true. Are our steps frail?
     Our eyes dried up and withered? Are our brows
     Wrinkled? There are no wrinkles in the heart.
     Ah! when the graybeard loves, he should be spared;
     The heart is young —that bleeds unto the last.
     I love thee as a spouse, – and in a thousand
     Other fashions, – as sire, – as we love
     The morn, the flowers, the overhanging heavens.
     Ah me! when day by day I gaze upon thee,
     Thy graceful step, thy purely-polished brow,
     Thine eyes' calm fire, – I feel my heart leap up,
     And an eternal sunshine bathe my soul.
     And think, too! Even the world admires,
     When age, expiring, for a moment totters
     Upon the marble margin of a tomb,
     To see a wife – a pure and dove-like angel —
     Watch over him, soothe him, and endure awhile
     The useless old man, only fit to die;
     A sacred task, and worthy of all honor,
     This latest effort of a faithful heart;
     Which, in his parting hour, consoles the dying,
     And, without loving, wears the look of love.
     Ah! thou wilt be to me this sheltering angel,
     To cheer the old man's heart – to share with him
     The burden of his evil years; – a daughter
     In thy respect, a sister in thy pity.
 
 
       DONNA SOL. My fate may be more to precede than follow.
     My lord, it is no reason for long life
     That we are young! Alas! I have seen too oft
     The old clamped firm to life, the young torn thence;
     And the lids close as sudden o'er their eyes
     As gravestones sealing up the sepulchre.
 

G. MOIR.

THE ROLL OF THE DE SILVA RACE

("Celui-ci, des Silvas, c'est l'aîné.")

 

{HERNANI, Act III.}

 
                     In that reverend face
     Behold the father of De Silva's race,
     Silvius; in Rome he filled the consul's place
     Three times (your patience for such honored names).
     This second was Grand Master of St. James
     And Calatrava; his strong limbs sustained
     Armor which ours would sink beneath. He gained
     Thirty pitched battles, and took, as legends tell,
     Three hundred standards from the Infidel;
     And from the Moorish King Motril, in war,
     Won Antiquera, Suez, and Nijar;
     And then died poor. Next to him Juan stands,
     His son; his plighted hand was worth the hands
     Of kings. Next Gaspar, of Mendoza's line —
     Few noble stems but chose to join with mine:
     Sandoval sometimes fears, and sometimes woos
     Our smiles; Manriquez envies; Lara sues;
     And Alancastre hates. Our rank we know:
     Kings are but just above us, dukes below.
     Vasquez, who kept for sixty years his vow —
     Greater than he I pass. This reverend brow,
     This was my sire's – the greatest, though the last:
     The Moors his friend had taken and made fast —
     Alvar Giron. What did my father then?
     He cut in stone an image of Alvar,
     Cunningly carved, and dragged it to the war;
     He vowed a vow to yield no inch of ground
     Until that image of itself turned round;
     He reached Alvar – he saved him – and his line
     Was old De Silva's, and his name was mine —
     Ruy Gomez.
 
 
       King CARLOS. Drag me from his lurking-place
     The traitor!
 

{DON RUY leads the KING to the portrait behind which HERNANI is hiding.}

 
                   Sire, your highness does me grace.
     This, the last portrait, bears my form and name,
     And you would write this motto on the frame!
     "This last, sprung from the noblest and the best,
     Betrayed his plighted troth, and sold his guest!"
 

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE)

THE LOVERS' COLLOQUY

("Mon duc, rien qu'un moment.")

{HERNANI, Act V.}

 
     One little moment to indulge the sight
     With the rich beauty of the summer's night.
     The harp is hushed, and, see, the torch is dim, —
     Night and ourselves together. To the brim
     The cup of our felicity is filled.
     Each sound is mute, each harsh sensation stilled.
     Dost thou not think that, e'en while nature sleeps,
     Some power its amorous vigils o'er us keeps?
     No cloud in heaven; while all around repose,
     Come taste with me the fragrance of the rose,
     Which loads the night-air with its musky breath,
     While everything is still as nature's death.
     E'en as you spoke – and gentle words were those
     Spoken by you, – the silver moon uprose;
     How that mysterious union of her ray,
     With your impassioned accents, made its way
     Straight to my heart! I could have wished to die
     In that pale moonlight, and while thou wert by.
 
 
       HERNANI. Thy words are music, and thy strain of love
     Is borrowed from the choir of heaven above.
 
 
       DONNA SOL. Night is too silent, darkness too profound
     Oh, for a star to shine, a voice to sound —
     To raise some sudden note of music now
     Suited to night.
 
 
       HERN.           Capricious girl! your vow
     Was poured for silence, and to be released
     From the thronged tumult of the marriage feast.
 
 
       DONNA SOL. Yes; but one bird to carol in the field, —
     A nightingale, in mossy shade concealed, —
     A distant flute, – for music's stream can roll
     To soothe the heart, and harmonize the soul, —
     O! 'twould be bliss to listen.
{Distant sound of a horn, the signal that HERNANI
must go to DON RUY, who, having saved his  
   life, had him bound in a vow to yield it up.}
 

LORD F. LEVESON GOWER (1ST EARL OF ELLESMERE).

CROMWELL AND THE CROWN

("Ah! je le tiens enfin.")

{CROMWELL, Act II., October, 1827.}

THURLOW communicates the intention of Parliament to offer CROMWELL the crown.

 
       CROMWELL. And is it mine? And have my feet at length
     Attained the summit of the rock i' the sand?
       THURLOW. And yet, my lord, you have long reigned.
 
 
       CROM.             Nay, nay!
     Power I have 'joyed, in sooth, but not the name.
     Thou smilest, Thurlow. Ah, thou little know'st
     What hole it is Ambition digs i' th' heart
     What end, most seeming empty, is the mark
     For which we fret and toil and dare! How hard
     With an unrounded fortune to sit down!
     Then, what a lustre from most ancient times
     Heaven has flung o'er the sacred head of kings!
     King – Majesty – what names of power! No king,
     And yet the world's high arbiter! The thing
     Without the word! no handle to the blade!
     Away – the empire and the name are one!
     Alack! thou little dream'st how grievous 'tis,
     Emerging from the crowd, and at the top
     Arrived, to feel that there is something still
     Above our heads; something, nothing! no matter —
     That word is everything.
 

LEITCH RITCHIE.

MILTON'S APPEAL TO CROMWELL

("Non! je n'y puis tenir.")

{CROMWELL, Act III. sc. iv.}

 
     Stay! I no longer can contain myself,
     But cry you: Look on John, who bares his mind
     To Oliver – to Cromwell, Milton speaks!
     Despite a kindling eye and marvel deep
     A voice is lifted up without your leave;
     For I was never placed at council board
     To speak my promptings. When awed strangers come
     Who've seen Fox-Mazarin wince at the stings
     In my epistles – and bring admiring votes
     Of learned colleges, they strain to see
     My figure in the glare – the usher utters,
     "Behold and hearken! that's my Lord Protector's
     Cousin – that, his son-in-law – that next" – who cares!
     Some perfumed puppet! "Milton?" "He in black —
     Yon silent scribe who trims their eloquence!"
     Still 'chronicling small-beer,' – such is my duty!
     Yea, one whose thunder roared through martyr bones
     Till Pope and Louis Grand quaked on their thrones,
     And echoed "Vengeance for the Vaudois," where
     The Sultan slumbers sick with scent of roses.
     He is but the mute in this seraglio —
     "Pure" Cromwell's Council!
     But to be dumb and blind is overmuch!
     Impatient Issachar kicks at the load!
     Yet diadems are burdens painfuller,
     And I would spare thee that sore imposition.
     Dear brother Noll, I plead against thyself!
     Thou aim'st to be a king; and, in thine heart,
     What fool has said: "There is no king but thou?"
     For thee the multitude waged war and won —
     The end thou art of wrestlings and of prayer,
     Of sleepless watch, long marches, hunger, tears
     And blood prolifically spilled, homes lordless,
     And homeless lords! The mass must always suffer
     That one should reign! the collar's but newly clamp'd,
     And nothing but the name thereon is changed —
     Master? still masters! mark you not the red
     Of shame unutterable in my sightless white?
     Still hear me, Cromwell, speaking for your sake!
     These fifteen years, we, to you whole-devoted,
     Have sought for Liberty – to give it thee?
     To make our interests your huckster gains?
     The king a lion slain that you may flay,
     And wear the robe – well, worthily – I say't,
     For I will not abase my brother!
     No! I would keep him in the realm serene,
     My own ideal of heroes! loved o'er Israel,
     And higher placed by me than all the others!
     And such, for tinkling titles, hollow haloes
     Like that around yon painted brow – thou! thou!
     Apostle, hero, saint-dishonor thyself!
     And snip and trim the flag of Naseby-field
     As scarf on which the maid-of-honor's dog
     Will yelp, some summer afternoon! That sword
     Shrink into a sceptre! brilliant bauble! Thou,
     Thrown on a lonely rock in storm of state,
     Brain-turned by safety's miracle, thou risest
     Upon the tott'ring stone whilst ocean ebbs,
     And, reeking of no storms to come to-morrow,
     Or to-morrow – deem that a certain pedestal
     Whereon thou'lt be adored for e'er – e'en while
     It shakes – o'ersets the rider! Tremble, thou!
     For he who dazzles, makes men Samson-blind,
     Will see the pillars of his palace kiss
     E'en at the whelming ruin! Then, what word
     Of answer from your wreck when I demand
     Account of Cromwell! glory of the people
     Smothered in ashes! through the dust thou'lt hear;
     "What didst thou with thy virtue?" Will it respond:
     "When battered helm is doffed, how soft is purple
     On which to lay the head, lulled by the praise
     Of thousand fluttering fans of flatterers!
     Wearied of war-horse, gratefully one glides
     In gilded barge, or in crowned, velvet car,
     From gay Whitehall to gloomy Temple Bar – "
     (Where – had you slipt, that head were bleaching now!
     And that same rabble, splitting for a hedge,
     Had joined their rows to cheer the active headsman;
     Perchance, in mockery, they'd gird the skull
     With a hop-leaf crown! Bitter the brewing, Noll!)
     Are crowns the end-all of ambition? Remember
     Charles Stuart! and that they who make can break!
     This same Whitehall may black its front with crape,
     And this broad window be the portal twice
     To lead upon a scaffold! Frown! or laugh!
     Laugh on as they did at Cassandra's speech!
     But mark – the prophetess was right! Still laugh,
     Like the credulous Ethiop in his faith in stars!
     But give one thought to Stuart, two for yourself!
     In his appointed hour, all was forthcoming —
     Judge, axe, and deathsman veiled! and my poor eyes
     Descry – as would thou saw'st! – a figure veiled,
     Uplooming there – afar, like sunrise, coming!
     With blade that ne'er spared Judas 'midst free brethren!
     Stretch not the hand of Cromwell for the prize
     Meant not for him, nor his! Thou growest old,
     The people are ever young! Like her i' the chase
     Who drave a dart into her lover, embowered,
     Piercing the incense-clouds, the popular shaft
     May slay thee in a random shot at Tyranny!
     Man, friend, remain a Cromwell! in thy name,
     Rule! and if thy son be worthy, he and his,
     So rule the rest for ages! be it grander thus
     To be a Cromwell than a Carolus.
     No lapdog combed by wantons, but the watch
     Upon the freedom that we won! Dismiss
     Your flatterers – let no harpings, no gay songs
     Prevent your calm dictation of good laws
     To guard, to fortify, and keep enlinked
     England and Freedom! Be thine old self alone!
     And make, above all else accorded me,
     My most desired claim on all posterity,
     That thou in Milton's verse wert foremost of the free!