Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE; SCENE OF FRENCH REVOLUTION, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE; SCENE OF FRENCH REVOLUTION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: What was our doom, my father? -- in thine arms
Last Line: In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea
Subject(s): French Revolution (1789); Prisons & Prisoners; Public Worship; Convicts; Church Attendance


SCENE -- Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, during the Reign of
Terror.

D AUBIGNE, an aged Royalist -- BLANCHE, his daughter, a young girl.

Blanche. What was our doom, my father? -- In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence! -- Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?
Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?
D' Aubigne. Yes, my poor child!
They send us home.
Blanche. Oh! shall we gaze again
On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire,
And the gray turret of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,
The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last? But how is this!
Father! thy glance is clouded -- on thy brow
There sits no joy!
D' Aubigne. Upon my brow, dear girl!
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian who receives,
And recognises in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.
Banche. Thou dost not mean --
No, no! it cannot be! Didst thou not say
They sent us home?
D' Aubigne. Where is the spirit's home?
Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days,
Where should it be -- but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword's reach and the tempest's power
-- Where, but in heaven!
Blanche. My father!
D' Aubigne. We must die.
We must look up to God, and calmly die.
Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile
Give nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart.
Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche?
Blanche (falling on his bosom). Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms --
Father!
D' Aubigne. Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go --
Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,
And they that loved their God, have all been swept,
Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,
No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steep'd
In noble blood; the temples are gone down;
The voice of prayer is hushed, or fearfully
Muttered, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live!
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,
To quit for ever the dishonoured soil,
The burdened air! Our God upon the cross --
Our king upon the scaffold -- let us think
Of these -- and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!
Blanche. A dark and fearful way!
An evil doom for thy dear, honoured head!
O thou, the kind, the gracious! whom all eyes
Bless'd as they looked upon! Speak yet again --
Say, will they part us?
D' Aubigne. No, my Blanche; in death
We shall not be divided.
Blanche. Thanks to God!
He, by thy glance, will aid me -- I shall see
His light before me to the last. And when --
Oh, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child! --
When shall the hour befall?
D' Aubigne. Oh! swiftly now,
And suddenly, with brief, dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour
As yet I know not. Each low throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity!
Blanche (kneeling before him). My father! lay thy hand
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness --
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are called.
D' Aubigne. If I may speak through tears! --
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart! -- thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou, that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widowed house,
There springing up, with soft light round thee shed,
For immortality! Meek child of God!
I bless thee -- He will bless thee! In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer's breast! And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived -- my duteous, holy Blanche!
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of heaven.
Blanche (rising). Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit. I can rise
And say, "Thy will be done!"
D' Aubigne (pointing upwards). See'st thou, my child!
Yon faint light in the west? The signal star
Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon - grating! Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith
Silenced the strain? No, let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more! And we will sleep,
Yes -- calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.

[They sing together

PRISONER'S EVENING SONG.

We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies;
How every coloured hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works we know,
Thou art still shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man hath barred it from our sight.
We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, the All-just!
And bless Thee still with free and boundless trust!

We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild, evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last --
And by the hope which finds no ark
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark --
We trust Thee! As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.
We know Thou reign'st, All-holy One, All-just!
And bless Thee still with love's own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer -- and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When His last hour came darkly on;
By His dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment;
And by His parting word, which rose
Through faith victorious o'er all woes --
We know that thou may'st wound, may'st break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to Thee we turn!
To whom but Thee? All-merciful, All-just!
In life, in death, we yield Thee boundless trust!





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