<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391664" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Widow Of Crescentius : Part II.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hast thou a scene that is not spread<br>With records of thy glory fled?<br>A monument that doth not tell<br>The tale of liberty's farewell?<br>Italia! thou art but a grave<br>Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave,<br>And nature gives her treasures birth<br>O'er all that hath been great on earth.<br>Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled,<br>When thou wert freedom's favoured child:<br>Though fane and tomb alike are low,<br>Time hath not dimmed thy sunbeam's glow;<br>Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent,<br>In nature's pomp magnificent;<br>What marvel if, when all was lost, <br>Still on thy bright, enchanted coast,<br>Though many an omen warned him thence,<br>Lingered the lord of eloquence?<br>Still gazing on the lovely sky, <br>Whose radiance wooed him - but to die:<br>Like him, <br>who<br>would not linger there,<br>Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair?<br>Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could dwell,<br>Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell?<br>Hath not thy pure and genial air <br>Balm for all sadness but despair?<br>No! there are pangs, whose deep-worn trace<br>Not all <br>thy<br>magic can efface!<br>Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn<br>The world and all its gifts to spurn:<br>Time may steal on with silent tread,<br>And dry the tear that mourns the dead,<br>May change fond love, subdue regret,<br>And teach e'en vengeance to forget:<br>But thou, Remorse! there is no charm,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thy<br>sting, avenger, to disarm!<br>Vain are bright suns and laughing skies<br>To soothe thy victim's agonies:<br>The heart once made thy burning throne,<br>Still, while it beats, is thine alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In vain for Otho's joyless eye<br>Smile the fair scenes of Italy,<br>As through her landscapes' rich array<br>The imperial pilgrim bends his way. <br>Thy form, Crescentius, on his sight<br>Rises when nature laughs in light,<br>Glides round him at the midnight hour,<br>Is present in his festal bower,<br>With awful voice and frowning mien,<br>By all but him unheard, unseen.<br>Oh! thus to shadows of the grave<br>Be every tyrant still a slave!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where through Gargano's woody dells,<br>O'er bending oaks the north wind swells, <br>A sainted hermit's lowly tomb<br>Is bosomed in umbrageous gloom, <br>In shades that saw him live and die<br>Beneath their waving canopy.<br>'Twas his, as legends tell, to share<br>The converse of immortals there;<br>Around that dweller of the wild <br>There 'bright appearances' have smiled. <br>And angel-wings, at eve, have been<br>Gleaming the shadowy boughs between.<br>And oft from that secluded bower<br>Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour<br>A swell of viewless harps, a sound<br>Of warbled anthems pealing round.<br>Oh, none but voices of the sky <br>Might wake that thrilling harmony, <br>Whose tones, whose very echoes made <br>An Eden of the lonely shade!<br>Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps<br>Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps:<br>Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown,<br>And veiled his low sepulchral stone: <br>Celestial footsteps haunt the hill;<br>And oft the awe-struck mountaineer <br>Aerial vesper-hymns may hear<br>Around those forest-precincts float,<br>Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. <br>Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint<br>To that rude shrine's departed saint, <br>And deem that spirits of the blest<br>There shed sweet influence o'er her breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And thither Otho now repairs,<br>To soothe his soul with vows and prayers;<br>And if for him, on holy ground,<br>The lost one, Peace, may yet be found,<br>'Midst rocks and forests, by the bed,<br>Where calmly sleep the sainted dead,<br>She dwells, remote from heedless eye,<br>With Nature's lonely majesty.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Vain, vain the search - his troubled breast<br>Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest;<br>The weary pilgrimage is o'er,<br>The hopes that cheered it are no more.<br>Then sinks his soul, and day by day <br>Youth's buoyant energies decay.<br>The light of health his eye hath flown,<br>The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. <br>Joyless as one on whom is laid <br>Some baleful spell that bids him fade,<br>Extending its mysterious power<br>O'er every scene, o'er every hour<br>E'en thus <br>he<br>withers; and to him<br>He withers - in that glorious clime <br>Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time;<br>And suns, that shed on all below<br>Their full and vivifying glow, <br>From him alone their power withhold,<br>And leaves his heart in darkness cold.<br>Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He<br>only seems to perish there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet sometimes will a transient smile<br>Play o'er his faded cheek awhile,<br>When breathes his minstrel boy a strain<br>Of power to lull all earthly pain;<br>So wildly sweet, its notes might seem<br>The ethereal music of a dream,<br>A spirit's voice from worlds unknown,<br>Deep thrilling power in every tone!<br>Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow<br>Hath language only given to woe;<br>And if at times its wakening swell<br>Some tale of glory seems to tell,<br>Soon the proud notes of triumph die,<br>Lost in a dirge's harmony.<br>Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved<br>Hath deeply suffered, fondly loved,<br>Ere the sad strain could catch from thence<br>Such deep impassioned eloquence! -<br>Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy -<br>He is no child of hope and joy!<br>Though few his years, yet have they been<br>Such as leave traces on the mien,<br>And o'er the roses of our prime <br>Breathe other blights than those of time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet seems his spirit wild and proud,<br>By grief unsoftened and unbowed.<br>Oh! there are sorrows which impart<br>A sternness foreign to the heart,<br>And, rushing with an earthquake's power,<br>That makes a desert in an hour, <br>Rouse the dread passions in their course,<br>As tempests wake the billows' force!-<br>'Tis sad, on youthful Guido's face,<br>The stamp of woes like these to trace.<br>Oh! where can ruins awe mankind, <br>Dark as the ruins of the mind?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His mien is lofty, but his gaze<br>Too well a wandering soul betrays:<br>His full dark eye at times is bright<br>With strange and momentary light,<br>Whose quick uncertain flashes throw<br>O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow:<br>And oft his features and his air <br>A shade of troubled mystery wear,<br>A glance of hurried wildness, fraught<br>With some unfathomable thought.<br>Whate'er that thought, still, unexpressed,<br>Dwells the sad secret in his breast;<br>The pride his haughty brow reveals,<br>All other passion well conceals -<br>He breathes each wounded feeling's tone<br>In music's eloquence alone;<br>His soul's deep voice is only poured<br>Through his full song and swelling chord.<br>He seeks no friend, but shuns the train<br>Of courtiers with a proud disdain;<br>And, save when Otho bids his lay<br>Its half unearthly power essay<br>In hall or bower the heart to thrill,<br>His haunts are wild and lonely still.<br>Far distant from the heedless throng, <br>He roves old Tiber's banks along,<br>Where Empire's desolate remains<br>Lie scattered o'er the silent plains; <br>Or, lingering 'midst each ruined shrine <br>That strews the desert Palatine,<br>With mournful yet commanding mien, <br>Like the sad genius of the scene,<br>Entranced in awful thought appears<br>To commune with departed years.<br>Or, at the dead of night, when Rome <br>Seems of heroic shades the home; <br>When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls<br>The mighty to their ancient halls;<br>When hushed is every meaner sound,<br>And the deep moonlight-calm around<br>Leaves to the solemn scene alone<br>The majesty of ages flown, - <br>A pilgrim to each hero's tomb,<br>He wanders through the sacred gloom;<br>And, 'midst those dwellings of decay,<br>At times will breathe so sad a lay,<br>So wild a grandeur in each tone,<br>'Tis like a dirge for empires gone!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Awake thy pealing harp again,<br>But breathe a more exulting strain, <br>Young Guido! for awhile forgot <br>Be the dark secrets of thy lot,<br>And rouse the inspiring soul of song<br>To speed the banquet's hour along! -<br>The feast is spread, the music's call<br>Is echoing through the royal hall,<br>And banners wave and trophies shine <br>O'er stately guests in glittering line; <br>And Otho seeks awhile to chase<br>The thoughts he never can erase,<br>And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep<br>Rise like a spirit on his sleep -<br>The still small voice of conscience - die, <br>Lost in the din of revelry.<br>On his pale brow dejection lowers,<br>But that shall yield to festal hours;<br>A gloom is in his faded eye,<br>But that from music's power shall fly:<br>His wasted cheek is wan with care,<br>But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there.<br>Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high,<br>Strike the bold chord exultingly!<br>And pour upon the enraptured ear<br>Such strains as warriors love to hear!<br>Let the rich mantling goblet flow,<br>And banish all resembling woe;<br>And, if a thought intrude, of power<br>To mar the bright convivial hour, <br>Still must its influence lurk unseen,<br>And cloud the heart - but not the mien!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Away, vain dream! - on Otho's brow,<br>Still darker lower the shadows now;<br>Changed are his features, now o'erspread<br>With the cold paleness of the dead;<br>Now crimsoned with a hectic dye,<br>The burning flush of agony! <br>His lip is quivering, and his breast<br>Heaves with convulsive pangs oppressed;<br>Now his dim eye seems fixed and glazed,<br>And now to heaven in anguish raised;<br>And as, with unavailing aid,<br>Around him throng his guests dismayed,<br>He sings - while scarce his struggling breast,<br>Hath power to falter - 'This is death!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then rushed that haughty child of song,<br>Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng:<br>Filled with a strange delirious light,<br>His kindling eye shone wildly bright;<br>And on the sufferer's mien awhile <br>Gazing with stern vindictive smile,<br>A feverish glow of triumph dyed <br>His burning cheek, while thus he cried : -<br>'Yes! these are death-pangs - on thy brow<br>Is set the seal of vengeance now!<br>Oh! well was mixed the deadly draught,<br>And long and deeply hast thou quaffed;<br>And bitter as thy pangs may be,<br>They are but guerdons meet from me!<br>Yet, these are but a moment's throes,<br>Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. <br>Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My<br>life hath been a lingering death;<br>Since one dark hour of woe and crime,<br>A blood-spot on the page of time!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Deemest thou my mind of reason void?<br>It is not frenzied, - but destroyed!<br>Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought,<br>That work of ruin thou hast wrought!<br>The secret of thy doom to tell,<br>My name alone suffices well!<br>Stephania! - once a hero's bride!<br>Otho! thou knowest the rest - <br>he died<br>.<br>Yes! trusting to a monarch's word,<br>The Roman fell, untried, unheard!<br>And thou, whose every pledge was vain, <br>How couldst <br>thou<br>trust in aught again?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'He died, and I was changed - my soul, <br>A lonely wanderer, spurned control.<br>From peace, and light, and glory hurled, <br>The outcast of a purer world,<br>I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown,<br>And lived for one dread task alone.<br>The task is closed, fulfilled the vow -<br>The hand of death is on thee now.<br>Betrayer! in thy turn betrayed,<br>The debt of blood shall soon be paid! <br>Thine hour is come - the time hath been<br>My heart had shrunk from such a scene;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That <br>feeling long is past - my fate<br>Hath made me stern as desolate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Ye that around me shuddering stand, <br>Ye chiefs and princes of the land!<br>Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom? <br>Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He<br>sleeps unhonoured - yet be mine<br>To share his low, neglected shrine.<br>His soul with freedom finds a home. <br>His grave is that of glory - Rome! <br>Are not the great of old with her,<br>That city of the sepulchre?<br>Lead me to death! and let me share<br>The slumbers of the mighty there!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The day departs - that fearful day <br>Fades in calm loveliness away:<br>From purple heavens its lingering beam<br>Seems melting into Tiber's stream,<br>And softly tints each Roman hill<br>With glowing light, as clear and still<br>As if, unstained by crime or woe, <br>Its hours had passed in silent flow.<br>The day sets calmly - it hath been<br>Marked with a strange and awful scene.<br>One guilty bosom throbs no more,<br>And Otho's pangs and life are o'er.<br>And thou, ere yet another sun<br>His burning race hath brightly run,<br>Released from anguish by thy foes,<br>Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose.<br>Yes! on thy country's lovely sky <br>Fix yet once more thy parting eye!<br>A few short hours - and all shall be<br>The silent and the past for thee.<br>Oh! thus with tempests of a day <br>We struggle, and we pass away,<br>Like the wild billows as they sweep, <br>Leaving no vestige on the deep!<br>And o'er thy dark and lowly bed<br>The sons of future days shall tread,<br>The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot <br>By them unknown, by thee forgot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Felicia+Dorothea+Hemans">Felicia Dorothea Hemans</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391664" data-title="The Widow Of Crescentius : Part II. de Felicia Dorothea Hemans" data-description="Hast thou a scene that is not spread With records of thy glory fled? A monument that doth not tell The tale of liberty's farewell? Italia! thou art but a grave Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave, And nature gives her treasures birth O'er all t..."></div> </div> </div>

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