But to Mrs Hemans' Vespers of Palermo. It was not the natural bent of genius which led her to the selection of the dramatic form; and when we become thoroughly acquainted with her temperament, and the feelings she loved to indulge, we are rather surprised that she performed the task she undertook with so much spirit, and so large a measure of success, than that she falls short in some parts of her performance. Nothing can be better conceived, or more admirably sustained, than the character of Raimond de Procida. The elder Procida, and the dark revengeful Montalba, are not so successfully treated. We feel that she has designed these figures with sufficient propriety, but she has not animated them; she could not draw from within those fierce emotions which were to infuse life into them. The effort to sympathise, even in imagination, with such characters, was a violence to her nature. The noble and virtuous heroism of the younger Procida was, on the contrary, no other than the overflow of her own genuine feeling. Few modern dramas present more spirit-stirring scenes, than those in which Raimond takes the leading part. Two of those we would particularly mention – one when, on joining the patriot-conspirators, and learning the mode in which they intended to free their country, he refuses, even for so great an object, to stain his soul with assassination and murder; and the other, where, towards the close of the piece, he is imprisoned by the more successful conspirators – is condemned to die for imputed treachery to their cause, and hears that the battle for his country, for which his spirit had so longed, is going forward. We cannot refrain from making a quotation from both these parts of the drama. We shall take the liberty of omitting some lines, in order to compress our extracts.
The conspirators have met, and proclaimed their intended scheme —
Sicilians. Be it so!
If one amongst us stay the avenging steel
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs!
Pledge we our faith to this.
Raim. (rushing forward indignantly.) Our faith to this!
No! I but dreamt I heard it: Can it be?
My countrymen, my father! – Is it thus
That freedom should be won? – Awake! – awake
To loftier thoughts! – Lift up, exultingly,
On the crowned heights, and to the sweeping winds,
Your glorious banner! – Let your trumpet's blast
Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud,
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear
The stranger's yoke no longer! – What is he
Who carries on his practised lip a smile,
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from,
And our blood curdle at – ay, yours and mine —
A murderer! Heard ye? – Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days?
Mont. I tell thee, youth,
Our souls are parched with agonising thirst,
Which must be quenched though death were in the draught:
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left
No other joy unblighted.
Pro. O, my son!
The time has passed for such high dreams as thine:
Thou knowest not whom we deal with. We must meet
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.
And, for our names – whate'er the deeds by which
We burst our bondage – is it not enough
That, in the chronicle of days to come,
We, through a bright "For ever," shall be called
The men who saved their country.
Raim. Many a land
Hath bowed beneath the yoke, and then arisen,
As a strong lion rending silken bonds,
And on the open field, before high heaven,
Won such majestic vengeance as hath made
Its name a power on earth.
Mon. Away! when thou dost stand
On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree,
Which the warm sun revives not, then return
Strong in thy desolation; but till then,
Thou art not for our purpose; – we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.
Raim. Montalba! know,
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice
Might yet have power among you, I would say,
Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yet
As knights, as warriors!
Mon. Peace! Have we not borne
Th'indelible taint of contumely and chains?
We are not knights and warriors: Our bright crests
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth.
Boy! we are slaves – and our revenge shall be
Deep as a slave's disgrace.
Raim. Why, then, farewell:
I leave you to your counsels. What proud hopes
This hour hath blighted! – yet, whate'er betide,
It is a noble privilege to look up
Fearless in heaven's bright face – and this is mine,
And shall be still. [Exit.
Our other extract is from a later scene in the drama, which we think very happily conceived. Raimond, accused of treachery, and condemned to die by his own father, is in chains and in prison. The day of his execution has arrived, but the Sicilians are called on to give battle before their gates; he is left alone, respited, or rather forgotten, for the present. His alternation of feeling, as he at first attempts to respond to the consolations of the priest Anselmo, and then, on hearing of the battle that is being fought for his country, breaks out into all that ardent love of glory, which was the main passion of his soul, is very admirably expressed.
Ans. But thou, my son!
Is thy young spirit mastered, and prepared
For nature's fearful and mysterious change?
Raim. Ay, father! of my brief remaining task
The least part is to die! And yet the cup
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips,
Crowned with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name
Is – glory! Oh! my soul from boyhood's morn
Hath nursed such mighty