# Felicia Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 35 1834/Prisoner's Evening Service

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 35, Pages 269-272
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,
BY MRS HEMANS,
No. VIII,
PRISONER'S EVENING SERVICE,
A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.*
From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed? Nor is power given to lowliest Innocence
Long to protect her own.—Wordsworth.
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 thro' 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
Hasten us to our home?
D'Aubigné.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 grey turret of our own château,
Look forth to greet us thro' 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'Aubigné.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.
Blanche.Thou dost not mean— —No, no! it cannot be!—Didst thou not say
They sent us home?
D’Aubigné.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’Aubigné.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'Aubigné. 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 hush'd, or fearfully
Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt.—Why, who would live?
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,
To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil,
The burden'd 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 honour'd head
Oh! thou, the kind, the gracious!—whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon!—Speak yet again—
Say, will they part us?
D'Aubigné.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'Aubigné.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 call'd.
D'Aubigné.If I may speak through tears! —Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!—thou who didst 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 widow'd 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'Arbigné (pointing upwards.) Seest thou, my child,
Yon faint light in the west? The signal-star
Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon-grating!—Fearfully
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.)
PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN.
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 still art 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 barr'd it from our sight.
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 rod severe in th' 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.
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 mayst wound, mayst break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to Thee we turn:
In Life, in Death, we yield Thee boundless trust!
* ↑ * The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Souru, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene.—These two victims had composed a little hymn, which they every night sung together in a low and restrained voice,
* ↑ * A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:—"My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross—your King upon the scaffold,—and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him.—Meet your fate as becomes a man."