« AnteriorContinuar »
Hence--to thy tent! Away-begone!
Aym. (attempting to rise.) Moraima !hath her spirit come To make death beautiful ? Moraima !-speak. Mor. It was his voice !-Aymer!
[She rushes to him, throwing aside her veil. Ayr
Thou livest-thou livest!
Mel. (approaching her.) Moraima!-hence! is this
[They retreat to the buckground.
'Twas for this She droop'd to the earth. Aym.
Moraima, fare thee well!
O! thou hast not known
Rai. (turning from them.) And all the past
Thou art no murderer! Peace
Mor. Speak-speak once more :
So thou art gone,
yet on this !
The most true-hearted brother there thou art
Mor. (suddenly rising.) With his last, last breath
For thy sake spare him
[To the Soldiers in the background.
Knights of France!
Must the old war-cry cease? [Half raising himself, and waving the Cross triumphantly. For the Cross-De Chatillon!
(He dies. (The Curtain falls.)
ANNOTATIONS ON “DE CHATILLON.”
“The merits of the Siege of Valencia are more of a descriptive than of a strictly dramatic kind; and abounding as it does with fine passages of narrative beauty, and with striking scenes and situations, it is not only not adapted for representation, but on the contrary, the characters are developed by painting inuch more than by incident. Withal, it wants unity and entireness, and in several places is not only rhetorical but diffuse.
"From the previous writings of the same author, and until the appearance of the Vespers of Palermo, it seemed to be the prevalent opinion of critics, that the genius of Mrs Hemans was not of a dramatic cast-that it expatiated too much in the developement of sentiment, too much in the luxuriancy of description, to be ever brought under the trammels essentially necessary for the success of scenic dialogue.
" The merits of the Vespers are great, and have been acknowledged to be so, not only by the highest of contemporary literary authorities, but by the still more unequivocal testimony of theatrical applause. What has been, has been,' and we wish not to detract one iota from praise so fairly earned; but we must candidly confess, that before the perusal of Dc Chatillon (although that poem is probably not quite in the state in which it would have been submitted to the world by its writer,) we were somewhat infected with the prevailing opinion, ihat the most successful path of Mrs. Hemans did not lead her towards the drama. Our opinion on this subject is, however, now much altered ; and we hesitate not to say, after minutely considering the characters of Raimer-so skilfully acted on, now by fraternal love, now by public duty-and of Aymer and Moraima, placed in situations where inclination is opposed to principle-that, by the cultivation of this species of composition, had health and prolonged years been the fate of the author of De Chatillon, that tragedy, noble
as it is, which must now be placed at the head of her dramatic efforts, would in all probability have been even surpassed in excellence by ulterior efforts.
“Mrs. Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. It is quite evident that she had succeeded in imbibing new and more severe ideas of this class of compositions. She had passed from the narrative into what has been conventionally terined the dramatic poemfrom the Historic Scenes, to Sebastian and the Siege of Valencia; but the Vespers of Palermo and De Chatillon can alone be said to be her legitimate dramas.
* The last, however, must be ranked first by many degrees of comparison. Without stripping her language of that richness and poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, or condescending in a single passage to the mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern writers for the stage as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has, in this attempt, preserved adherence to reality amid scenes allied with romance-brevity, and effect in situations strongly alluring to amplification; and, in lier delineation of some of the strongest, as well as the finest emotions of the heart, there is exhibited
a knowledge of nature's workings at once minute, faithful, and affecting."-MS. Critique by A.
I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!
I GO sweet friends! yet think of me
When spring's young voice awakes the flower
In those bright hours, the violet's hours.
From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell
Think on me then I loved it well!
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze,
To me, sweet friends, in other days.
To melt in strains of parting woe,
“No more of talk where God or angel guest
Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?
Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore!
Man wander'd from his Paradise away;
Came down, high guests ! in many a later day,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye,
On those bright steps between the earth and sky:
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ! And the dread rushing of your wings that hour, Was like the noise of waters in their power, But in the Olive-mount, by night appearing,
'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done! Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,
Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son? -Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, Wasted good tidings unto Syrian swains. Yet one more task was yours! your heavenly dwelling
Ye left, and by th' unseald sepulchral stone, In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,
That He they sought had triumph'd, and was gone! Now have ye left us for the brighter shore, Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,
With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet. Though the fresh glory of those days be over, When, ʼmidst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met ?
* Ezekial, chap. X.
Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high,
Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave ?
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave? Dreams !-but a deeper thought our souls may fill
One, One is near-a spirit holier still !
WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM TILE
RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.
0! How could Fancy crown with thee
In ancient days the God of Wine,
Companion of the vine?
Of revelry hath long been o'er,
But now are heard no more.
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Around the victor's tent:
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Around the victor's grave.
The bards and heroes of the past;
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Each record of the grand and fair;
Wreath of the tomb! art there.
Beneath a blue Italian sky,
Save thy wild tapestry!
To wave where banners waved of yore,
Along his rocky shore.
Those eyries of a vanish'd race