And, in long wanderings o'er a desert land, Those tender feet imprint the scorching sand. "Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold Who live through toils unequall'd and untold! On the wild shore, beneath the burning sky, The hapless pair, exhausted, sink to die! Bedew the rock with tears of pain intense, Of bitterest anguish, thrilling every sense; Till in one last embrace, with mortal throes, Their struggling spirits mount from anguish to repose !" As the dark phantom sternly thus portray'd Our future ills, in Horror's deepest shade,"Who then art thou?" I cried. "Dread being, tell Each sense thus bending in amazement's spell !" -With fearful shriek, far echoing o'er the tide, Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied: "Behold the genius of that secret shore Where the wind rages and the billows roarThat stormy Cape, for ages mine alone, To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, all unknown! Far to the southern pole my throne extends, That hidden rock, which Afric's region ends. Behold that spirit, whose avenging might, Whose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite." Thus having said, with strange, terrific cries, The giant-spectre vanish'd from our eyes; In sable clouds dissolved-while far around, Dark ocean's heaving realms his parting yells resound! Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place A smile hath pass'd, which fill'd its home with light, But there is power with faith! Power, e'en though nature o'er the untimely grave Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave; For sorrow comes of Death, And with a yearning heart we linger on, [gone! When they, whose glance unlock'd its founts, are But glory from the dust, And praise to Him, the merciful, for those With an immortal trust! Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, Such hope as she hath left-" the pure in heart!" 1823. TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. TO VENUS. BOOK I., ODE XXX. OH! leave thine own loved isle, Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores! And here in Glycera's fair temple smile, Where vows and incense lavishly she pours. Waft here thy glowing son; Bring Hermes; let the Nymphs thy path surround, And youth, unlovely till thy gifts be won, And the light Graces with the zone unbound. A DIRGE. WEEP for the early lost !— How many flowers were mingled in the crown Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down, E'en when life promised most! How many hopes have wither'd! They that bow To heaven's dread will, feel all its mysteries now. Did the young mother's eye Behold her child, and close upon the day, -Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn! For there is hush'd on earth A voice of gladness-there is veil'd a face, TO HIS ATTENDANT. BOOK I., ODE XXXVIII. I HATE the Persian's costly pride: The wreaths with bands of linden tied- Nor where the lingering roses bide DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. A TRAGEDY.1 ["About this time, Mrs Hemans was engaged in the composition of another tragedy, entitled 'De Chatillon, or, The Crusaders ;* in which, with that deference to fair criticism which she was always ready to avow, and to act upon, she made it her purpose to attempt a more compressed style of writing, avoiding that redundancy of poetic diction which had been censured as the prevailing fault of The Vespers. It may possibly be thought that in the composition in question she has fallen into the opposite extreme of want of elaboration; yet, in its present state, it is, perhaps, scarcely amenable to criticism-for, by some strange accident, the fair copy transcribed by herself was either destroyed or mislaid in some of her subsequent removals, and the piece was long considered as utterly lost. Nearly two years after her death, the original rough MS., with all its hieroglyphical blots and erasures, was discovered amongst a mass of forgotten papers; and it has been a task of no small difficulty to decipher it, and complete the copy now first given to the world. Allowances must, therefore, be made for the disadvantages under which it appears, thus deprived of her own finishing touches, and with no means of ascertaining how far it may differ from the copy so unaccountably missing."-Memoir, p. 80-1.] SCENE II-A Hall of Oriental architecture, opening upon gardens. A fountain in the centre. AYMER DE CHATILLON, MORAIMA. Mor. (bending over a couch on which her brother is sleeping.) He sleeps so calmly now; the soft wind here [gave Aym. (turning away.) It was my sword which The wound he dies from ! Mor. Dies from! say not so! The brother of my childhood and my youth, Which preys upon his life! Aym. You would go hence? Mor. For his sake! Aym. You would leave me! 'Tis too late! Of your light step hath made my heart o'erflow, [weep! Mor. (covering herself with her veil.) I can but Is it even so?-this love was born for tears! Aymer! I can but weep! (going to leave him, he detains her.) [arms; Aym. Hear me, yet hear me! I was rear'd in And the proud blast of trumpets, and the shouts Of banner'd armies-these were joy to me, Enough of joy! Till you!-I look'd on youWe met where swords were flashing, and the light Of burning towers glared wildly on the slainAnd then Mor. (hurriedly.) Yes! then you saved me! At once, what springs of deeper happiness Moraima! leave me not! Mor. For us to love! Oh! is't not taking sorrow to our hearts, Aym. Am I beloved? She wept With a full heart! I am! and such deep joy Is found on earth! If I should lose her now! If aught-[an attendant enters. (To attendant.) You seek me!-why is this? Att. My lord, Your brother and his knights Aym. Here! are they here? The knights-my brother, saidst thou? And he would speak with you. Aym. I see-I know— ['tis vain, (To attendant.) Leave me! I know why he is come: They shall not part us! (Looking back on Moraima as he goes out.) Floats round her form! They shall not part us! no! [Exit-Scene closes. SCENE III-A square of the city-a church in the background. RAINIER DE CHATILLON. Rai. (walking to and fro impatiently.) And now, too! now! My father unavenged, Our holy places threaten'd, every heart Task'd to its strength! A knight of Palestine Now to turn dreamer, to melt down his soul In love-lorn sighs; and for an infidel! -Will he lift up his eyes to look on mine? Will he not-hush! AYMER enters. (They look on each other for a moment without speaking.) Rai. (suppressing his emotion.) So brothers meet! You know Wherefore I come? Aym. It cannot be; 'tis vain. Tell me not of it! Rai. How! you have not heard? (Turning from him.) He hath so shut the world out with his dreams, The tidings have not reach'd him! or perchance Have been forgotten! You have captives here? Aym. (hurriedly.) Yes, mine! my own-won by the right of arms! You dare not question it. Rai. A prince, they say, And his fair sister:-is the maid so fair? What, you would see her! Rai. (scornfully.) I!-oh, yes! to quell My soul's deep yearnings! Let me look on swords. Boy, boy! recall yourself!-I come to you With the last blessing of our father! Aym. Last! His last!-how mean you? Is he-- Rai. Dead?-yes! dead. He died upon my breast. Aym. (with the deepest emotion.) And I was here! Dead!-and upon your breast! You closed his eyes While I-he spoke of me? Rai. With such deep love! He ever loved you most! His spirit seem'd To linger for your coming. Aym. What! he thought That I was on my way! He look'd for me? And I Rai. You came not! I had sent to you, And told you he was wounded. Aym. Yes-but not Not mortally! Rai. "Twas not that outward wound That might have closed; and yet he surely thought Aym. (throwing himself upon his brother's neck.) Brother! take me to his grave, That I may kneel there, till my burning tears, With the strong passion of repentant love, Wring forth a voice to pardon me ! Rai. You weep! Tears for the garlands on a maiden's grave! Aym. Not of his wound? Rai. His wound!--it is the silent spirit's wound, We cannot reach to heal! One burning thought Prey'd on his heart. Aym. Not-not-he had not heardHe bless'd me, Rainier? Rai. Have you flung away Your birthright? Yes! he bless'd you!—but he died -Hewhose name stood for Victory's-he believed The ancient honour from his gray head fall'n, And died-he died of shame! Aym. What feverish dream Rai. (vehemently.) Was it not lost, the warrior's latest field, The noble city held for Palestine Taken-the Cross laid low? I came too late To turn the tide of that disastrous fight, We bore him thence Wounded, upon his shield Aym. And I was here! Rai. He cast one look back on his burning towers, And once before the dead, and yet once more |