Of time should rise, and float upon the winds
Into the far hereafter; there to be
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb,
Murmuring – Awake, Arise! But this is past!
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame
To sleep forgotten in the dust; but now,
Oh God! the undying record of my grave
Will be – Here sleeps a traitor! One whose crime
Was – to deem brave men might find nobler weapons
Than the cold murderer's dagger!
Ans. O my son!
Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will hang
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stained soul
Doth conjure from the dead!
Raim. Thou'rt right. I would not.
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart,
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit
Into that still and passive fortitude
Which is but learned from suffering. Would the hour
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!
Ans. It will not be to-day. The foe hath reached
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all
Her warrior men, are marshalled and gone forth.
Thy father leads them on.
Raim. (starting up.) They are gone forth!
my father leads them on!
All – all Palermo's youth! No! one is left,
Shut out from glory's race! They are gone forth!
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad —
It burns upon the air! The joyous winds
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam
Of battle's roaring billows! On my sight
The vision bursts – it maddens! 'tis the flash,
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze
Of helmets in the sun! Such things are
Even now – and I am here!
Ans. Alas, be calm!
To the same grave ye press – thou that dost pine
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.
Raim. Ay, thou canst feel
The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee
All men alike, the warrior and the slave,
Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on
To the same bourne.
Vittoria, who had taken a leading part in the conspiracy, now rushes in, bringing the intelligence that the Sicilians are worsted – are in flight. Procida still strives —
But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,
With Guido and Montalba, by his side,
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.
Raim. And I am here! Shall there be power, O God!
In the roused energies of fierce despair.
To burst my heart – and not to rend my chains?
Vittoria, however, gives orders for his release, and he rushes forth to the field, where he turns the tide of battle, and earns that glorious death he sighed for.
The failure of the play at Covent Garden theatre was attributed, amongst the friends of the authoress, to the indifferent acting of the lady who performed the part of Constance. In justice to the actress, we must confess she had a most difficult part to deal with. There is not a single speech set down for Constance, which, we think, the most skilful recitation could make effective. The failure of Mrs Hemans, in this part of the drama, is not very easily accounted for. Constance is a gentle, affectionate spirit, in love with the younger Procida, and the unfortunate cause of the suspicion that falls upon him of being a traitor. It is a character which, in her lyrical effusions, she would have beautifully portrayed. But we suppose that the exclusion from her favourite haunts of nature – the inability of investing the grief of her heroine in her accustomed associations of woods, and fields, and flowers – the confinement of her imagination to what would be suitable to the boards of a theatre – embarrassed and cramped her powers. Certain it is, she seems quite at a loss here to express a strain of feeling which, on other occasions, she has poured out with singular fluency and force. Constance has no other manner of exhibiting her distress but swooning or dreaming, or thinking she must have been dreaming, and recovering herself to the remembrance of what no mortal so situated could ever have forgotten – the most common, and, to our taste, one of the most unfortunate expedients that dramatists and novelists have recourse to. We are loath to quote any thing half so uninteresting as instances of this practice; we shall content ourselves with giving, in a note below, two brief passages to exemplify what we mean.1
It ought to be borne in remembrance, however, that the Vespers of Palermo, although not the "first" with respect to publication, was the first written of Mrs Hemans' dramatic works. It was produced in solitude, and away from the bustle of theatres, and, be it also confessed, probably with a very scanty knowledge of what stage-representation required. Indeed, the result proved this to be the case. The Siege of Valencia, written on a different principle, although probably even less adapted for stage representation, possesses loftier claims as a composition, and, as a poem, is decidedly superior. Its pervading fault consists in its being pitched on too high a key. All the characters talk in heroics – every sentiment is strained to the utmost; and the prevailing tone of the author's mind characterises the whole. We do not say that it is deficient in nature – it overflows alike with power and tenderness; but its nature is too high for the common purposes of humanity. The wild, stern enthusiasm of the priest – the inflexibility of the father – the wavering of the mother between duty and affection – the heroic devotion of the gentle Ximena, are all well brought out; but there is a want of individuality – the want of that, without which elaboration for the theatre is vain, and with which, compositions of very inferior merit often attract attention, and secure it.
Passing over Sebastian of Portugal, and the two or three sketches in the Scenes and Hymns of Life, as of minor importance, De Chatillon is the only other regular drama that Mrs Hemans subsequently attempted. Unfortunately for her, the Vespers, although long prior in point of composition, had not been brought out when the Siege of Valencia was written; and, consequently, she could not benefit by the fate and failure which was destined for that drama. This is much to be lamented, for De Chatillon, as a play, far exceeds either in power and interest. The redundancies in imagery and description, the painting instead of acting, which were the weaker side of its precursors, were here corrected. It is unfortunate that it wanted the benefit of her last corrections, as it was not published till some years after her death, and from the first rough draft – the amended one, which had been made from it, having been unfortunately lost. But, imperfect in many respects as it may be found to be, it is beyond compare the best and most successful composition of the author in this department. Without stripping her language of that richness and poetic grace which characterises her genius, or condescending to a single passage of mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern dramatists as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has in this attempt preserved adherence to reality,