Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS


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NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: In genoa, when the sunset gave
Last Line: Bend with celestial joy to hear.
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea
Subject(s): Genoa, Italy


IN Genoa, when the sunset gave
Its last warm purple to the wave,
No sound of war, no voice of fear,
Was heard, announcing danger near;
Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate
But slumbered till its hour of fate,
Yet calmly, at the twilight's close,
Sunk the wide city to repose.

But when deep midnight reigned around,
All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound,
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze
Bore its dread summons o'er the seas.
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted;
Then mingled with the awakening peal
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel,
Arm, warriors, arm! for danger calls,
Arise to guard your native walls!
With breathless haste the gathering throng
Hurry the echoing streets along;
Through darkness rushing to the scene
Where their bold counsels still convene.
-- But there a blaze of torches bright
Pours its red radiance on the night,
O'er fane, and dome, and column playing,
With every fitful night-wind swaying:
Now floating o'er each tall arcade,
Around the pillared scene displayed,
In light relieved by depth of shade:
And now with ruddy meteor-glare,
Full streaming on the silvery hair
And the bright cross of him who stands
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands,
Girt with his consecrated train,
The hallowed servants of the fane.
Of life's past woes, the fading trace
Hath given that aged patriarch's face
Expression holy, deep, resigned,
The calm sublimity of mind.
Years o'er his snowy head have passed,
And left him of his race the last;
Alone on earth -- yet still his mien
Is bright with majesty serene;
And those high hopes, whose guiding-star
Shines from the eternal worlds afar,
Have with that light illumed his eye,
Whose fount is immortality,
And o'er his features poured a ray
Of glory, not to pass away.
He seems a being who hath known
Communion with his God alone,
On earth by naught but pity's tie
Detained a moment from on high!
One to sublimer worlds allied,
One, from all passion purified,
E'en now half mingled with the sky
And all prepared -- oh! not to die --
But, like the prophet, to aspire,
In heaven's triumphal car of fire.
He speaks -- and from the throngs around
Is heard not e'en a whispered sound;
Awe-struck each heart, and fixed each glance,
They stand as in a spellbound trance:
He speaks -- oh! who can hear nor own
The might of each prevailing tone?

"Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong,
Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate
Hath made your country desolate;
Now by the love ye bear her name,
By that pure spark of holy flame
On freedom's altar brightly burning,
But, once extinguished, ne'er returning;
By all your hopes of bliss to come,
When burst the bondage of the tomb;
By Him, the God who bade us live
To aid each other, and forgive --
I call upon ye to resign
Your discords at your country's shrine,
Each ancient feud in peace atone,
Wield your keen swords for her alone,
And swear upon the cross, to cast
Oblivion's mantle o'er the past!"

No voice replies. The holy bands
Advance to where yon chieftain stands,
With folded arms, and brow of gloom
O'ershadowed by his floating plume.
To him they life the cross -- in vain:
He turns -- oh! say not with disdain,
But with a mien of haughty grief,
That seeks not, e'en from heaven, relief.
He rends his robes -- he sternly speaks --
Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks.

"Father! not thus the wounds may close,
Inflicted by eternal foes.
Deemest thou thy mandate can efface
The dread volcano's burning trace?
Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene
Be smiling as it once hath been?
No! for the deeds the sword hath done
Forgiveness is not lightly won;
The words by hatred spoke may not
Be as a summer breeze forgot!
'Tis vain -- we deem the war-feud's rage
A portion of our heritage.
Leaders, now slumbering with their fame,
Bequeathed us that undying flame;
Hearts that have long been still and cold
Yet rule us from their silent mould;
And voices, heard on earth no more,
Speak to our spirits as of yore.
Talk not of mercy -- blood alone
The stain of bloodshed may atone;
Naught else can pay that mighty debt,
The dead forbid us to forget."

He pauses -- from the patriarch's brow
There beams more lofty grandeur now:
His reverend form, his aged hand,
Assume a gesture of command,
His voice is awful, and his eye
Filled with prophetic majesty.

"The dead! -- and deemest thou they retain
Aught of terrestrial passion's stain?
Of guilt incurred in days gone by,
Aught but the fearful penalty?
And sayest thou, mortal! blood alone
For deeds of slaughter may atone?
There hath been blood -- by Him 'twas shed
To expiate every crime who bled;
The absolving God who died to save,
And rose in victory from the grave!
And by that stainless offering given
Alike for all on earth to heaven;
By that inevitable hour
When death shall vanquish pride and power,
And each departing passion's force
Concentrate all in late remorse;
And by the day when doom shall be
Passed on earth's millions, and on thee --
The doom that shall not be repealed,
Once uttered, and forever sealed --
I summon thee, O child of clay!
To cast thy darker thoughts away,
And meet thy foes in peace and love,
As thou wouldst join the blest above."

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling
Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing;
Oh! not in vain the pleading cries
Of anxious thousands round him rise;
He yields -- devotion's mingled sense
Of faith, and fear, and penitence,
Pervading all his soul, he bows
To offer on the cross his vows,
And that best incense to the skies,
Each evil passion's sacrifice.

Then tears from warriors' eyes were flowing,
High hearts with soft emotions glowing;
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting,
And ardent throngs in transport meeting;
And eager footsteps forward pressing,
And accents loud in joyous blessing;
And when their first wild tumult cease,
A thousand voices echo "Peace!"

Twilight's dim mist hath rolled away,
And the rich Orient burns with day;
Then as to greet the sunbeam's birth,
Rises the choral hymn of earth --
The exulting strain through Genoa swelling,
Of peace and holy rapture telling.

Far float the sounds o'er vale and steep,
The seaman hears them on the deep,
So mellowed by the gale, they seem
As the wild music of a dream.
But not on mortal ear alone
Peals the triumphant anthem's tone;
For beings of a purer sphere
Bend with celestial joy to hear.





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