CANTO III.

“Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto.” Hippolito Pindemonte.

Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield, Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field; Ye that around the oaken cross of yore[87] Stood firm and fearless on Asturia’s shore, And with your spirit, ne’er to be subdued, Hallow’d the wild Cantabrian solitude; Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, In the last chastening of your Moslem foes! Rejoice!—for Spain, arising in her strength, Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length, And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain, And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. And thou, the warrior born in happy hour,[88] Valencia’s lord, whose name alone was power, Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, Conqueror of kings! exult, O Cid! on high; For still ’twas thine to guard thy country’s weal, In life, in death, the watcher for Castile! Thou, in that hour when Mauritania’s bands Rush’d from their palmy groves and burning lands, E’en in the realm of spirits didst retain A patriot’s vigilance, remembering Spain![89] Then at deep midnight rose the mighty sound, By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound, As through her echoing streets, in dread array, Beings once mortal held their viewless way— Voices from worlds we know not—and the tread Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead, Thou and thy buried chieftains: from the grave Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, And join thy warriors with unearthly might To aid the rescue in Tolosa’s fight. Those days are past—the crescent on thy shore, O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.[90] What banner streams afar from Vela’s tower?[91] The cross, bright ensign of Iberia’s power! What the glad shout of each exulting voice? “Castile and Aragon! rejoice, rejoice!” Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, And Spain’s proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance, Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. Oh! ne’er in lofty dreams hath Fancy’s eye Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, At joust or tourney, theme of poet’s lore, High masque or solemn festival of yore. The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise O’erarch’d by cloudless and cerulean skies; Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers: And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, With helmets glittering as they move along, With broider’d scarf and gem-bestudded mail, And graceful plumage streaming on the gale; Shields, gold-emboss’d, and pennons floating far, And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues That southern suns o’er heaven and earth diffuse— Blend in one scene of glory, form’d to throw O’er memory’s page a never-fading glow, And there, too, foremost midst the conquering brave, Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave. There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court; Calm, stern, collected—yet within his breast Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess’d? If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer’s mien. Hear’st thou the solemn yet exulting sound Of the deep anthem floating far around? The choral voices, to the skies that raise The full majestic harmony of praise? Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train, They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, Borne on their trophied car—lo! bursting thence A blaze of chivalrous magnificence! Onward their slow and stately course they bend To where th’ Alhambra’s ancient towers ascend, Rear’d and adorn’d by Moorish kings of yore, Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. They reach those towers—irregularly vast And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast:[92] They enter—to their wondering sight is given A genii palace—an Arabian heaven![93] A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, Its forms and colour seem alike of air. Here, by sweet orange-boughs half shaded o’er, The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor, Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues The calm transparence of its wave suffuse. There round the court, where Moorish arches bend, Aërial columns, richly deck’d, ascend; Unlike the models of each classic race, Of Doric grandeur or Corinthian grace, But answering well each vision that portrays Arabian splendour to the poet’s gaze: Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all—a mingling glow Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below; Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins Of precious marble, and the vivid stains Of rich mosaics o’er the light arcade, In gay festoons and fairy knots display’d. On through th’ enchanted realm, that only seems Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams, The royal conquerors pass—while still their sight On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, O’er bowery terraces and myrtle shades; Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high The vast sierra mingling with the sky. There, scattering far around their diamond spray, Clear streams from founts of alabaster play, Through pillar’d halls, where, exquisitely wrought, Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene A wild, romantic, oriental mien: While many a verse, from eastern bards of old, Borders the walls in characters of gold.[94] Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood, And all be lone—a splendid solitude. Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, From mingling voices of exulting throngs; Tambour and flute, and atabal are there,[95] And joyous clarions pealing on the air; While every hall resounds, “Granada won! Granada! for Castile and Aragon!”[96] ’Tis night—from dome and tower, in dazzling maze, The festal lamps innumerably blaze;[97] Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams, From every lattice tremulously streams, Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil; Red flame the torches on each minaret’s height, And shines each street an avenue of light; And midnight feasts are held, and music’s voice Through the long night still summons to rejoice. Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry, Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, Gall’d by the chain, though deck’d awhile with flowers; Stern passions working in th’ indignant breast, Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpress’d, Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet— Vengeance and keen remorse, and vain regret. From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, Who lingering gazes o’er the lovely scene, Anguish and shame contending in his mien He who of heroes and of kings the son, Hath lived to lose whate’er his fathers won; Whose doubts and fears his people’s fate have seal’d, Wavering alike in council and in field; Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, To Afric’s wilds the royal exile flies;[98] Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain O’er all he never must behold again. Fair spreads the scene around—for him too fair, Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. The Vega’s meads, the city’s glittering spires, The old majestic palace of his sires, The gay pavilions and retired alcoves, Bosom’d in citron and pomegranate groves; Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light, All in one moment bursting on his sight, Speak to his soul of glory’s vanish’d years, And wake the source of unavailing tears. —Weep’st thou, Abdallah?—Thou dost well to weep, O feeble heart! o’er all thou couldst not keep! Well do a woman’s tears befit the eye Of him who knew not as a man to die.[99] The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda’s bower, The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. No voice, no step, is in her father’s halls, Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; No stranger enters at the chieftain’s gate, But all is hush’d, and void, and desolate. There, through each tower and solitary shade, In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid: Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown; And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows The stream whose music lull’d her to repose. But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought Whispers ’twas he that desolation wrought; He who his country and his faith betray’d, And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid; A voice of sorrow swells in every gale, Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale: And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, In wild exuberance rustle to the wind, Each leaf hath language to his startled sense, And seems to murmur—“Thou hast driven her hence!” And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, —Where hath lost love been once recall’d again? In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn, His name can rouse no feeling now—but scorn. O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart Wakes to behold the void within—and start! To feel its own abandonment, and brood O’er the chill bosom’s depth of solitude. The stormy passions that in Hamet’s breast Have sway’d so long, so fiercely, are at rest; The avenger’s task is closed:[100]—he finds too late It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. He was a lofty spirit, turn’d aside From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride, And onward, in its new tumultuous course, Borne with too rapid and intense a force To pause one moment in the dread career, And ask if such could be its native sphere. Now are those days of wild delirium o’er, Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more; The feverish energies of passion close, And his heart sinks in desolate repose, Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less From its own deep and utter loneliness. There is a sound of voices on the air, A flash of armour to the sunbeam’s glare, Midst the wild Alpuxarras;[101]—there, on high, Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky, A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke, Have fled indignant from the Spaniard’s yoke. O ye dread scenes! where nature dwells alone, Severely glorious on her craggy throne; Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, Veil’d by the mists and girdled by the storms,— Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves, That hold communion with the torrent-waves; And ye, th’ unstain’d and everlasting snows, That dwell above in bright and still repose; To you, in every clime, in every age, Far from the tyrant’s or the conqueror’s rage, Hath Freedom led her sons—untired to keep Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. She, like the mountain-eagle, still delights To gaze exulting from unconquer’d heights, And build her eyrie in defiance proud, To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud. Now her deep voice, the soul’s awakener, swells, Wild Alpuxarras! through your inmost dells. There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, As at the clarion’s call, her children throng. She with enduring strength has nerved each frame, And made each heart the temple of her flame, Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow Unquenchably, surviving all below. There high-born maids, that moved upon the earth More like bright creatures of aërial birth, Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear, All undismay’d, privation and distress, And smile the roses of the wilderness: And mothers with their infants, there to dwell In the deep forest or the cavern cell, And rear their offspring midst the rocks, to be, If now no more the mighty, still the free. And midst that band are veterans, o’er whose head Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed: They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, O royal city! and the wreck of all They loved and hallow’d most:—doth aught remain For these to prove of happiness or pain? Life’s cup is drain’d—earth fades before their eye; Their task is closing—they have but to die. Ask ye why fled they hither?—that their doom Might be, to sink unfetter’d to the tomb. And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there, And buoyancy of spirit, form’d to dare And suffer all things—fall’n on evil days, Yet darting o’er the world an ardent gaze, As on the arena where its powers may find Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold, The high in heart, unconquer’d, uncontroll’d: By day, the huntsmen of the wild—by night, Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire’s light, They from their bleak majestic home have caught A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, While all around them bids the soul arise To blend with nature’s dread sublimities. —But these are lofty dreams, and must not be Where tyranny is near:—the bended knee, The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down On regal conquerors, and defy their frown. What warrior-band is toiling to explore The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow’d o’er, Startling with martial sounds each rude recess, Where the deep echo slept in loneliness? These are the sons of Spain!—Your foes are near, O exiles of the wild sierra! hear! Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves Pour like the torrent in its might of waves! Who leads the invaders on?—his features bear The deep-worn traces of a calm despair; Yet his dark brow is haughty—and his eye Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. ’Tis he! ’tis he again! the apostate chief; He comes in all the sternness of his grief. He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field, Against his country’s children though he leads Castilian bands again to hostile deeds: His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die. So shall remorse and love the heart release, Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. The mountain-echoes are awake—a sound Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. Within the steep defile that winds between Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, Whose bright transparence ne’er was stain’d till then; While swell the war-note and the clash of spears To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait In dread suspense the tidings of their fate. But he—whose spirit, panting for its rest, Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast— Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance Aim’d at another’s breast, would still advance— Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by, As if for him ’twere bliss too great to die. Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes Reserved for thee ere nature’s last repose; Thou know’st not yet what vengeance fate can wreak, Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell The sons of battle in that narrow dell; Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass’d, And age, the weary, found repose at last; Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, Borne down by numbers and o’erpower’d by toil. Dispersed, dishearten’d, through the pass they fly, Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high; While Hamet’s band in wonder gaze, nor dare Track o’er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair. Yet he, to whom each danger hath become A dark delight, and every wild a home, Still urges onward—undismay’d to tread Where life’s fond lovers would recoil with dread. But fear is’ for the happy—they may shrink From the steep precipice or torrent’s brink; They to whom earth is paradise—their doom Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb: Not such his lot, who, school’d by fate severe, Were but too blest if aught remain’d to fear.[102] Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw Eternal shadows o’er the glen below; And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray Half in a mist of radiance veils its way, He holds his venturous track:—supported now By some o’erhanging pine or ilex bough; Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell. Now hath his footstep gain’d the summit’s head, A level span, with emerald verdure spread, A fairy circle—there the heath-flowers rise, And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies; And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side: But all is wild beyond—and Hamet’s eye Roves o’er a world of rude sublimity. That dell beneath, where e’en at noon of day Earth’s charter’d guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray; Around, untrodden woods; and far above, Where mortal footstep ne’er may hope to rove, Bare granite cliffs, whose fix’d, inherent dyes Rival the tints that float o’er summer skies:[103] And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, That seems a part of heaven’s eternity. There is no track of man where Hamet stands, Pathless the scene as Lybia’s desert sands; Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard Of distant voices, and the gathering-word Of Islam’s tribes, now faint and fainter grown, Now but the lingering echo of a tone. That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, He follows, reckless if his bands are near. On by the rushing stream his way he bends, And through the mountain’s forest zone ascends; Piercing the still and solitary shades Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, Eternal twilight’s reign:—those mazes past, The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, And the lone wanderer now hath reach’d the source Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. But there he pauses—for the lonely scene Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, And, mingled oft with some wild eagle’s cry, From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, So deep the solemn and majestic sound Of forests, and of waters murmuring round— That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. —What earthly feeling unabash’d can dwell In nature’s mighty presence?—midst the swell Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? These their own grandeur on the soul impress, And bid each passion feel its nothingness. Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; Shadow’d by giant oaks, and rude and lone, It seems the temple of some power unknown, Where earthly being may not dare intrude To pierce the secrets of the solitude. Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone? Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan? As some loved sound that long from earth had fled, The unforgotten accents of the dead! E’en thus it rose—and springing from his trance His eager footsteps to the sound advance. He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor; Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er He rushes on—and lo! where Zayda rends Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends, Lost in despair;—yet, as a step draws nigh, Disturbing sorrow’s lonely sanctity, She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief, Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief; While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, And every woe forgetting—but the last. “Com’st thou to weep with me?—for I am left Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain’d bier; His child may call, but he no more shall hear. He sleeps—but never shall those eyes unclose; ’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose; Nor can it break his slumbers.—Dost thou mourn? And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?” But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name, When, swiftly rushing o’er her spirit, came Each dark remembrance—by affliction’s power Awhile effaced in that o’erwhelming hour, To wake with tenfold strength: ’twas then her eye Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, And o’er her wasted cheek a burning glow Spreads, while her lips’ indignant accents flow. “Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow’s might Bow’d down my soul, and quench’d its native light— That I should thus forget! and bid thy tear With mine be mingled o’er a father’s bier! Did he not perish, haply by thy hand, In the last combat with thy ruthless band? The morn beheld that conflict of despair:— ’Twas then he fell—he fell!—and thou wert there! Thou! who thy country’s children hast pursued To their last refuge midst these mountains rude. Was it for this I loved thee?—Thou hast taught My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought! ’Twill soon be past—I bow to heaven’s decree, Which bade each pang be minister’d by thee.” “I had not deem’d that aught remain’d below For me to prove of yet untasted woe; But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart One more, one keener agony of heart. Oh, hear me yet!—I would have died to save My foe, but still thy father, from the grave; But in the fierce confusion of the strife, In my own stern despair and scorn of life, Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, Save that to perish there in vain I sought. And let me share thy sorrows!—hadst thou known All I have felt in silence and alone, E’en thou mightst then relent, and deem, at last, A grief like mine might expiate all the past “But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower, So fondly rear’d in luxury’s guarded bower, From every danger, every storm secured, How hast thou suffer’d! what hast thou endured! Daughter of palaces! and can it be That this bleak desert is a home for thee! These rocks thy dwelling! thou, who shouldst have known Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone! Oh, yet forgive!—be all my guilt forgot, Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!” “That lot is fix’d—’twere fruitless to repine: Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. I may forgive—but not at will the heart Can bid its dark remembrances depart. No, Hamet! no!—too deeply are these traced; Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced! Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep Her lonely vigils o’er the grave to weep. E’en now, prophetic of my early doom, Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb; And ne’er in vain did hopeless mourner feel That deep foreboding o’er the bosom steal! Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side Of him for whom I lived, and would have died; Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, In pain and peril—I forsook him not. “And now, farewell!—behold the summer-day Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh, With the last rites his bier to sanctify. Oh, yet in time, away!—’twere not my prayer Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare! This hour they come—and dost thou scorn to fly? Save me that one last pang—to see thee die!” E’en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread; Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. They reach the cave—they enter—slow their pace, And calm deep sadness marks each mourner’s face; And all is hush’d, till he who seems to wait In silent stern devotedness his fate, Hath met their glance—then grief to fury turns: Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns, And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath. Blood must atone for blood, and death for death! They close around him: lofty still his mien, His cheek unalter’d, and his brow serene. Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda’s cry; Fruitless her prayer, unmark’d her agony. But as his foremost foes their weapons bend Against the life he seeks not to defend, Wildly she darts between—each feeling past, Save strong affection, which prevails at last. Oh, not in vain its daring!—for the blow Aim’d at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow; And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast Where in that hour her head may calmly rest, For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band, Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand: While, every thought of hate and vengeance o’er, They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. She, she alone is calm:—a fading smile, Like sunset, passes o’er her cheek the while; And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell Those last faint rays, the parting soul’s farewell. “Now is the conflict past, and I have proved How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! Yes! in an hour like this ’twere vain to hide The heart so long and so severely tried: Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill’d, But sterner duties call’d—and were fulfill’d. And I am blest!—To every holier tie My life was faithful,—and for thee I die! Nor shall the love so purified be vain; Sever’d on earth, we yet shall meet again. Farewell!—And ye, at Zayda’s dying prayer, Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare! Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.” Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. One pang—’tis past—her task on earth is done, And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. But he for whom she died—oh! who may paint The grief to which all other woes were faint? There is no power in language to impart The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d: These have no words—nor are by words portray’d. A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear Far o’er the Alpuxarras;—wild its tone, And rocks and caverns echo, “Thou art gone!” “Daughter of heroes! thou art gone To share his tomb who gave thee birth: Peace to the lovely spirit flown! It was not form’d for earth. Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, Which brightly pass’d and left no trace. “But calmly sleep!—for thou art free, And hands unchain’d thy tomb shall raise. Sleep! they are closed at length for thee, Life’s few and evil days! Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, The lingering death of liberty. “Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom Didst early to the storm resign: We bear it still—and dark their doom Who cannot weep for thine! For us, whose every hope is fled, The time is past to mourn the dead. “The days have been, when o’er thy bier Far other strains than these had flow’d; Now, as a home from grief and fear, We hail thy dark abode! We, who but linger to bequeath Our sons the choice of chains or death. “Thou art with those, the free, the brave, The mighty of departed years; And for the slumberers of the grave Our fate hath left no tears. Though loved and lost, to weep were vain For thee, who ne’er shalt weep again. “Have we not seen despoil’d by foes The land our fathers won of yore? And is there yet a pang for those Who gaze on this no more? Oh, that like them ’twere ours to rest! Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!” A few short year’s, and in the lonely cave Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet’s grave. Sever’d in life, united in the tomb— Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom! Their dirge, of woods and waves th’ eternal moan; Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. And oft beside the midnight watch-fire’s blaze, Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days, (When freedom fled, to hold, sequester’d there, The stern and lofty councils of despair,) Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled, Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those Who thus have suffer’d, and who thus repose.

Midst Tivoli’s luxuriant glades, Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, Where dwelt, in days departed long, The sons of battle and of song, No tree, no shrub its foliage rears But o’er the wrecks of other years, Temples and domes, which long have been The soil of that enchanted scene. There the wild fig-tree and the vine O’er Hadrian’s mouldering villa twine;[104] The cypress, in funereal grace, Usurps the vanish’d column’s place; O’er fallen shrine and ruin’d frieze The wall-flower rustles in the breeze; Acanthus-leaves the marble hide They once adorn’d in sculptured pride; And nature hath resumed her throne O’er the vast works of ages flown. Was it for this that many a pile, Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, To Anio’s banks the image lent Of each imperial monument?[105] Now Athens weeps her shatter’d fanes, Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains; And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear’d From Tibur’s vale have disappear’d. We need no prescient sibyl there The doom of grandeur to declare; Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, Reveals some oracle of Time; Each relic utters Fate’s decree— The future as the past shall be. Halls of the dead! in Tibur’s vale, Who now shall tell your lofty tale? Who trace the high patrician’s dome, The bard’s retreat, the hero’s home? When moss-clad wrecks alone record There dwelt the world’s departed lord, In scenes where verdure’s rich array Still sheds young beauty o’er decay, And sunshine on each glowing hill Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. Sunk is thy palace—but thy tomb, Hadrian! hath shared a prouder doom.[106] Though vanish’d with the days of old Its pillars of Corinthian mould; Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought, Each bodying some immortal thought, Which o’er that temple of the dead Serene but solemn beauty shed, Have found, like glory’s self, a grave In time’s abyss or Tiber’s wave;[107] Yet dreams more lofty and more fair Than art’s bold hand hath imaged e’er. High thoughts of many a mighty mind Expanding when all else declined, In twilight years, when only they Recall’d the radiance pass’d away, Have made that ancient pile their home, Fortress of freedom and of Rome. There he, who strove in evil days Again to kindle glory’s rays, Whose spirit sought a path of light For those dim ages far too bright— Crescentius—long maintain’d the strife Which closed but with its martyr’s life, And left th’ imperial tomb a name, A heritage of holier fame. There closed De Brescia’s mission high, From thence the patriot came to die;[108] And thou, whose Roman soul the last Spoke with the voice of ages past,[109] Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled To mingle with the glorious dead, That midst the world’s degenerate race They vainly sought a dwelling-place, Within that house of death didst brood O’er visions to thy ruin woo’d. Yet, worthy of a brighter lot, Rienzi, be thy faults forgot! For thou, when all around thee lay Chain’d in the slumbers of decay— So sunk each heart, that mortal eye Had scarce a tear for liberty— Alone, amidst the darkness there, Couldst gaze on Rome—yet not despair![110] ’Tis morn—and nature’s richest dyes Are floating o’er Italian skies; Tints of transparent lustre shine Along the snow-clad Apennine; The clouds have left Soracte’s height, And yellow Tiber winds in light, Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew’d The wide Campagna’s solitude. ’Tis sad amidst that scene to trace Those relics of a vanish’d race; Yet, o’er the ravaged path of time— Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, Where nature still, though empires fall, Holds her triumphant festival— E’en desolation wears a smile, Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while; And heaven’s own light, earth’s richest bloom, Array the ruin and the tomb. But she, who from yon convent tower Breathes the pure freshness of the hour; She, whose rich flow of raven hair Streams wildly on the morning air, Heeds not how fair the scene below, Robed in Italia’s brightest glow. Though throned midst Latium’s classic plains Th’ Eternal City’s towers and fanes, And they, the Pleiades of earth, The seven proud hills of Empire’s birth, Lie spread beneath; not now her glance Roves o’er that vast sublime expanse; Inspired, and bright with hope,’tis thrown On Adrian’s massy tomb alone; There, from the storm, when Freedom fled, His faithful few Crescentius led; While she, his anxious bride, who now Bends o’er the scene her youthful brow, Sought refuge in the hallow’d fane, Which then could shelter, not in vain. But now the lofty strife is o’er, And Liberty shall weep no more. At length imperial Otho’s voice Bids her devoted sons rejoice; And he, who battled to restore The glories and the rights of yore, Whose accents, like the clarion’s sound, Could burst the dead repose around, Again his native Rome shall see The sceptred city of the free! And young Stephania waits the hour When leaves her lord his fortress-tower— Her ardent heart with joy elate, That seems beyond the reach of fate; Her mien, like creature from above, All vivified with hope and love. Fair is her form, and in her eye Lives all the soul of Italy; A meaning lofty and inspired, As by her native day-star fired; Such wild and high expression, fraught With glances of impassion’d thought, As fancy sheds, in visions bright, O’er priestess of the God of Light; And the dark locks that lend her face A youthful and luxuriant grace, Wave o’er her cheek, whose kindling dyes Seem from the fire within to rise, But deepen’d by the burning heaven To her own land of sunbeams given. Italian art that fervid glow Would o’er ideal beauty throw, And with such ardent life express Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness,— Dreams which, surviving Empire’s fall, The shade of glory still recall. But see!—the banner of the brave O’er Adrian’s tomb hath ceased to wave. ’Tis lower’d—and now Stephania’s eye Can well the martial train descry, Who, issuing from that ancient dome, Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. Now from her watch-tower on the height, With step as fabled wood-nymph’s light, She flies—and swift her way pursues Through the lone convent’s avenues. Dark cypress groves, and fields o’erspread With records of the conquering dead, And paths which track a glowing waste, She traverses in breathless haste; And by the tombs where dust is shrined Once tenanted by loftiest mind, Still passing on, hath reach’d the gate Of Rome, the proud, the desolate! Throng’d are the streets, and, still renew’d, Rush on the gathering multitude. —Is it their high-soul’d chief to greet That thus the Roman thousands meet? With names that bid their thoughts ascend, Crescentius! thine in song to blend; And of triumphal days gone by Recall th’ inspiring pageantry? —There is an air of breathless dread, An eager glance, a hurrying tread; And now a fearful silence round, And now a fitful murmuring sound, Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. Quick is each step and wild each mien, Portentous of some awful scene. Bride of Crescentius! as the throng Bore thee with whelming force along, How did thine anxious heart beat high, Till rose suspense to agony!— Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, And leave thy heart to deeper woes. Who midst yon guarded precinct stands, With fearless mien but fetter’d hands? The ministers of death are nigh, Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye; And in his glance there fives a mind Which was not form’d for chains to bind, But cast in such heroic mould As theirs, th’ ascendant ones of old. Crescentius! freedom’s daring son, Is this the guerdon thou hast won? Oh, worthy to have lived and died In the bright days of Latium’s pride! Thus must the beam of glory close O’er the seven hills again that rose, When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, The soul of Rome indignant woke? Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,[111] Sunk is the crowning city’s throne:[112] Th’ illusions, that around her cast Their guardian spells, have long been past.[113] Thy life hath been a shot-star’s ray, Shed o’er her midnight of decay; Thy death at freedom’s ruin’d shrine Must rivet every chain—but thine. Calm is his aspect, and his eye Now fix’d upon the deep blue sky, Now on those wrecks of ages fled Around in desolation spread— Arch, temple, column, worn and gray, Recording triumphs pass’d away; Works of the mighty and the free, Whose steps on earth no more shall be, Though their bright course hath left a trace Nor years nor sorrows can efface. Why changes now the patriot’s mien, Erewhile so loftily serene? Thus can approaching death control The might of that commanding soul? No!—Heard ye not that thrilling cry Which told of bitterest agony? He heard it, and at once, subdued, Hath sunk the hero’s fortitude. He heard it, and his heart too well Whence rose that voice of woe can tell; And midst the gazing throngs around One well-known form his glance hath found— One fondly loving and beloved, In grief, in peril, faithful proved. Yes! in the wildness of despair, She, his devoted bride, is there. Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies, The light of frenzy in her eyes: But ere her arms can clasp the form Which life ere long must cease to warm— Ere on his agonising breast Her heart can heave, her head can rest— Check’d in her course by ruthless hands, Mute, motionless, at once she stands; With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, Frozen and fix’d in horror’s trance; Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, And thought o’erwhelm’d, and feeling dead; And the light waving of her hair, And veil, far floating on the air, Alone, in that dread moment, show She is no sculptured form of woe. The scene of grief and death is o’er, The patriot’s heart shall throb no more: But hers—so vainly form’d to prove The pure devotedness of love, And draw from fond affection’s eye All thought sublime, all feeling high— When consciousness again shall wake, Hath now no refuge but to break. The spirit long inured to pain May smile at fate in calm disdain, Survive its darkest hour, and rise In more majestic energies. But in the glow of vernal pride, If each warm hope at once hath died, Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, Dead to the sunbeam and the shower; A broken gem, whose inborn light Is scatter’d—ne’er to re-unite.