E. F. Ellet

“ Breathed its wild dirge o’er Memnon’s tomb;
To give the statue voice and might,
From the pure day-god’s eye of light
One beam must pierce the gloom.
Thou wouldst that rousing in my breast
The fires that ’neath their ashes lie,
I barter now my spirit’s rest
For tones that vanish with a sigh.
Ah! glory is a shadow’s dream!
Too brief even to its votaries seem
The fleeting days its charms that prove!
Thou wouldst that in the mocking strife
I waste my last frail breath of life—
I would that breath preserve—to love! ”

“ That haunted me, and mocked my tears! No—no!
Thy pity, like the angel of Heaven’s mercy,
Will smile—and smile—and soothe me as I pass
Down to the cold and welcome grave—and then—
When I am dead—thou’lt think on me—weep for me—
Wilt thou not, Foscarini?
Foscarini.
Listen to me!
The victim hath no duties. That forced vow
Which came not from the heart, and bears no sanction
Of the consenting will, Heaven did not register.
Teresa.
What mean you?
Foscarini.
You are mine! Good spirits have heard
Our vows, and sealed those bonds, which mortal hands
Can never loose. ”

“ Is this your justice? Oh! it cannot be—
I wrong even you, to impute such guilt as this!
Your hearts are hard—you’re cruel—but this pitch
Of fiendish cruelty surpasses you!
You could not do this! no—you smile—you could not!
There’s not in human breasts a void so drear,
So horrible—whence all that sweetens life
Has been driven forth, to welcome hell’s worst spirits!
Oh! you who have framed these horrid words, to sear
And strike me dead—and I have borne the blow
Whose force is spent on me—on me alone!
Is’t not thus? say—say—
Contarini.
That they have import
You will soon know.
Teresa. ”

“ Foscarini.
’Tis infamy
To you, if I remain!
Teresa.
You shall not go.
What is a name to me? Stay—I’ll reveal
All—all to Contarini; I will plead
Even at his feet! He’ll hear me, and will save you!
Foscarini.
You know him not; he’d spurn you, and his slaves
Would scoff at you. No—no—I choose my death,
Rather than your disgrace!
Teresa (clinging to him.)
Break not my hold!
I caused thy danger—I alone! I’ll shield thee
With my entwining arms. They shall not strike—
Or if they do—mine—mine—shall be the death! [Pg 206]
Foscarini. ”

“ Contarini.
Woman! I do command you—
Hence!
Teresa.
No! we stand within no dungeon now,
With prison walls to hear—and him in chains
To plead for you! Here reach no bribes of yours!
Loredano.
Who speaks of bribes?
Teresa.
They’re his! he used them, truly,
To save the guiltless. Pshaw! what were his bribes?
Gold—paltry gold! And mine! He claimed a price
Nought could redeem! a perjured soul! a spirit
Sold to perdition! [Pg 225]
Contarini. ”

“ That word which fills the seraph’s holiest strain—
The word—“I love!”—pronounced by gods and men—
This—this is worth a tear!
A tear! a vain regret—an idle breath!
My soul mounts heavenward on the wings of death.
I go—where all our loftiest wishes rise;
I go—where hope hath fixed her burning gaze—
I go—where float my lute’s high notes of praise—
Where tend my latest sighs.
Like birds that see through darkness of the tomb,
The spirit’s eye hath pierced my gathering gloom,
With prophet instinct pointing to the dead ”

“ Dimmed with gore is the glitter of helmet and shield;
The stream of fierce carnage still reeks on the air,
And the raven stoops earthward, his banquet to share!
Let him feast! the last breath from the vanquished is sped—
But our song shall exult o’er the festering dead!
On with the dance! Of the red lightning’s gleam
We will twine us a wreath that in triumph shall beam;
For the pale flowers of earth, in that garland to shine,
Of our victim’s torn limbs gasping trophies we’ll twine;
For the rich mantling wine cup of luxury to tell,
With their hearts’ drained life-blood our goblets shall swell! ”

“ Whom thy green age hath nourished at thy side—
By thy foes cherished, envied while betrayed,
The home of greatness is thy mighty shade!
The mind that from antiquity would claim
The vanished forms of liberty and fame—
The spirit meek that greets a purer day,
Scorning the world’s vain gods of vulgar sway,
That seeks an only altar, loftier still,
For one true God, supreme, invisible—
Both, both, with bitter tenderness and trust
Hail thee their mother—worship thee in dust!
The winds that snatch the relics from thy tomb
To jealous eyes profane the holy gloom ”

“ Clings like the ivy, to the wreck of years;
Whose hope can hail no future, holier morn:—
I, who have held in earth nor root nor seed,
Pass without effort, like the fragile weed
On evening breezes borne.
Like is the poet to the birds of flight
Which shun the strand that ocean crests with white,
Nor seek mid forest shades their brief repose;
Poised on the wave, they pass the far-off shore
With heedless warblings—and the world no more
Than their wild voices, knows.
No master’s hand along the sounding wires
Guided mine own, nor taught my soul its fires ”

“ Thus hearts that bask in fortune’s smile,
Undimmed by clouds of care,
Feel not the joys their hours beguile,
Which humbler bosoms share.
[Pg 66]
INCANTATION OF HERVOR. [13]
Spirit of the royal dead!
Many a weary year is sped,
Since these stern mountains, wild and high,
Echoed thy lofty battle cry.
Silence and peace their hallowed gloom
Have shed upon the warrior’s tomb.
I come to break the sacred rest
The grave has heaped upon thy breast;
The daughter of a warlike name,
And deeds of glory—here I claim
The sword of more than mortal fire,
That fiercely armed thee, royal sire! ”

“ Shall shine on earth, to bless with genial beams
This beauteous race of beings animate—
When bright with flattering hues the coming hours
No longer dance before me—and I hear
No more, regarded friend, thy dulcet verse,
Nor the sad gentle harmony it breathes—
When mute within my breast the inspiring voice
Of youthful poesy, and love, sole light
To this my wandering life—what guerdon then
For vanished years will be the marble reared
To mark my dust amid the countless throng
Wherewith the Spoiler strews the land and sea?
Thus is it, Pindemonte! Man’s last friend,
Hope, flies the tomb ”

“ When he shall whirl the lance and shield,
Which now his arm essays in vain to wield!
While thus his tardy youth he chides,
A third, with infant wile
Behind the ponderous armor hides
His soft seraphic smile.
Tears that the depths of bliss bespeak,
Roll down the monarch’s furrowed cheek;
His presence mid that lovely race
Lights up the joy in every face.
Oh, beauteous peace! where’er we roam,
Where could our wandering footsteps meet
A truth so pure, a love so sweet,
As in this bower of home?
But lo! beneath the tranquil deep
The sun is set ”

“ In tears or song away?
In song—my fingers clasp the lyre in death—
My spirit, swanlike, with departing breath
To worlds unseen lifts her melodious cry:—
How should the soul, of music wrought above,
Save in the strains of harmony and love,
Pour forth her farewell sigh?
The lyre in breaking yields its loftiest sound;
The dying lamp, ere quenched in gloom profound,
Shoots forth a beam that shames its vanished rays;
Heavenward the swan’s expiring glance is cast—
While man alone weeps for his pleasures past,
And counts his closing days.
What is the worth of time that we deplore? ”

“ Nor breath of infants in their cradled rest;
Nor fishers’ chant, blent with the surge’s sigh;—
My guardian genius! Oh! the voice was thine!
’Twas thou, whose spirit mixed its song with mine!
Now lone and old, with scattered locks and white,
The wood my shelter from the tempest’s sweep,
My shrivelled hands warmed by the fires they light,
My gentle kids, my infant charge I keep.
That hidden voice, yet in this breast forlorn,
Enchants, consoles me with its ceaseless song;
It is no more the voice of life’s young morn,
Nor his fond tone whom I have wept so long:
My guardian genius! ”

“ Ye may twine young flowers round the sunny brow
Ye deck for the festal day,—
But mine is the shadow that waves o’er them now,
And their beauty has withered away.
Ye may gather bright gems for glory’s shrine,
Afar, from their cavern home—
Ye may gather the gems—but their pride is mine,
They will light the dark cold tomb.
The warrior’s heart beats high and proud,
I have laid my cold hand on him;
And the stately form hath before me bowed,
And the flashing eye is dim. ”

“ Are the dead jealous of their lonely dust?
Leave only at my tomb enough of space,
Where some sad wanderer near the sacred place
May kneel in humble trust.
Oft in the hush of secresy and gloom
Hath prayer gone up beside the solemn tomb,
And hope descended to the weary soul!
The foot clings less to mortal weakness there—
Heaven grows more vast—the spirit mounts its sphere
Less bowed to earth’s control. [Pg 79]
Give to the winds, the flame, the ocean’s roar,
These strings which to my soul respond no more. ”

“ Exit Steno.
Enter Fiorilla.
A lady! I must smooth this troubled brow,
For such fair meeting.
Fiorilla.
Well—my lord—
Contarini.
Fiorilla!
Fiorilla.
Am I so changed, that you scarce know me, sir?
Then doth my mirror flatter, for it tells me
Of features yet unaltered; and in truth
They might be—for short space of time hath passed
Since we last met.
Contarini.
They are all radiant still
With beauty—and would be, though years had striven
To steal some charm away. But those few days
Have wrought a change in me. I’m wedded—lady. ”

“ Foscarini.
Oh! woman, woman!
Who marking on your cheek the sudden brightness,
The brow that strives so vainly to compel
Disdain to sit there—who could deem you loved not
The voice of homage? Nay—sweet monitor——
Teresa.
I never feigned disdain.
Foscarini.
Nor felt it?
Teresa.
Never
Toward you.
Foscarini.
Why thanks; and well may I be proud,
Who merit scorn so richly; rashly seeking
To win such excellence, as other eyes
Are blinded while they gaze on!
Teresa.
Again, again!
Foscarini.
Forgive me—it is hard to measure words
When the heart overflows. Mine own Teresa! ”

“ SCENE III. A Garden—Teresa appears, descending the steps of a balcony.
Teresa.
’Tis sunset, and he is not here; though wont
To anticipate the hour! It matters not.
How lovely is the silvery, deepening twilight!
There needs but some faint sound, in melody
Stealing upon the silence—some fond whisper
Which makes us sigh for quiet in return,
To muse upon its meaning!
(A strain of music without, which continues for some moments.)
Enter Foscarini.
Foscarini.
She listens like a goddess, fresh from heaven,
To airs that breathe nought heavenly save her name. ”

“ SCENE III. A Garden, near the palace of Contarini. On one side the palace of the Spanish ambassador.
Enter Foscarini.
Foscarini.
She would repel me! but I’ll see her once
Before we part for ever: claim her pardon.
How could I deem her worthless! Oh, what wild
Playthings of fortune we—who if the cup
We drink hath aught of bitter—dash it down—
And madly spurn the sweetness in the dregs!
We tear the wound—and hate the balm that heals it!
Enter Teresa.
Teresa!
Teresa.
Signor—
Foscarini.
So cold! then all I feared is true:
You love me not! [Pg 201]
Teresa. ”

“ Where Beauty hath a birth-right—where each mound
And mouldering ruin tells of ages past—
And every breeze, as with a spirit’s tone,
Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back,
Waking the soul to lofty memories,
Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill
The heart with peace more pure?—Nor yet art thou,
Proud stream! without thy records—graven deep
On yon eternal hills, which shall endure
Long as their summits breast the win’try storm,
Or smile in the warm sunshine. ”

“ Teresa.
And would you take,
Even could you wring from me the sacrifice,
A victim bride?
Contarini.
Aye, though I won your hate!
From you even hate is sweetness—Choose between
A husband whom you love not, and the death
Of one you love!
Veniero.
Urge her no more—her choice
Is fixed already! Let me die in peace—
She may look on; and—if she weep for me,
Some dearer hand will dry her short lived tears.
Teresa (struggling with emotion.) ”

“ The earth that drank the fathers’ gore
Has given the reckless sons a grave.
But tyrants weary of the steel,
And mourn the wounds they yet may heal.
Flow, generous wine—and smile, ye fair!
In you the earth forgets her care.
No more at Nature’s ills we’ll frown,
But welcome chant for smiling spring;
With roses from her wreath we crown
Our glowing temples while we sing.
Heedless of pallid slavery’s check,
Amid a crumbling empire’s wreck—
Flow, generous wine—and smile, ye fair!
In you the earth forgets her care.
[Pg 116]
LINES.
I live the thrall of visions! ”

“ Teresa.
Is this the noble
So honored? This the haughty senator?
Ready to barter in his selfishness
The trust he holds? Bearing the solemn charge— [Pg 169]
A nation’s safety—laden with the prayers
Of suppliant millions, on his truth who rest
Their hopes—their all—yet ready to fling down
The mighty burthen, if it impede the way
To some light goal of pleasure! Is’t to such
We plead?—Before I reverenced, though I feared thee,
I scorn thee now!
Contarini.
Proud, wayward girl, remember
Whom ’tis you taunt!
Teresa.
Full well, my lord, I know
There can be few like you. ”

“ Smile in its joys—in its mock sorrows weep.
When comes the waking hour of thought, to give
My spirit back to reason, and dispel
The phantoms frail its folly could believe?
Ah! not in poesy alone doth dwell
That charm fantastic! but whate’er may seem
Truth in this being vain—or hope or rest,
Is falsehood all—life is a fevered dream!
A pageant wild, where none are truly blest. ”