Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
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KING PEDRO'S REVENGE. |
 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
KING PEDRO'S REVENGE.
The following verses are founded on a striking passage in the life of Pedro I. of Portugal, the husband of the fair, but ill-starred Inez de Castro. One of the first acts of Don Pedro, after his accession to the throne of Portugal, was to compel the King of Castile to deliver over to his vengeance the murderers of his wife, who, on the death of his father, Alfonso, had fled to the Spanish court for protection. On the day on which the prisoners, with their escort, were expected at Santarem, the King commanded a stupendous funeral pile to be erected upon the plain without the city, and a splendid banquet to be spread beside it. On the arrival of the cavalcade from Castile, the pyre was kindled, and, after addressing to the murderers a few words of eloquent invective, in reply to their earnest supplications for mercy, he directed them to be cast into the flames; whilst he and his assembled nobles sat down to the magnificent banquet that had been prepared for them. In the royal mausoleum of the monastery of Alcobaca are the tombs of Pedro and Inez. The sarcophagus of the King is surmounted by a recumbent effigy, which represents him with a severe countenance, in the act of drawing his sword.
There's a rush of helm and spear,
And the sudden burst of a warlike strain
Comes dancing on the ear;—
And the banners wave, and the trumpets wail,
And the silver cymbals clash;
And sounds are on the fitful gale,
Like a stormy ocean's dash!
That girds King Pedro's throne,
Like the thunder peal that from cloud to cloud,
In its gathering might, rolls on:
And the shout that cleaves the noontide sky,
To a wilder shout gives birth;
That swells, like an army's battle-cry,
Till it shakes the solid earth.
Of blood the eager call;
'Tis the tiger's yell for his slaughtered mate,
Ere he springs to'avenge her fall!
And ten thousand hearts exult as one,
When that welcome band draws near;
And their cry, like the knell of mercy flown,
Still rings on the doomed ear!
To feed a monarch's pride?—
A gift more grateful to their king
Than aught in the world beside!
Nor gems, nor gold, rich stores of art,
Barbaric spoils of war,—
But a treasure to his panting heart
More prized—more precious far!
Who should have shared his crown;
The felon slaves that had defied
So long his iron frown;—
Are given to his red hand at last,—
Stand fettered in his sight;
And his kindling glance is on them cast,
With a fierce and grim delight!
Your doom is fixed, your sentence said;
And such mercy shall ye wring from me
As ye vouchsafed the sinless dead!
“There's blood upon your dastard brands
That blood can only clear again;
There's guilt on those remorseless hands,
And fire, perchance, may cleanse the stain!
Your swords against a woman's breast;
Her pleading tears and beauty spurned,
And made her dying pangs your jest;
Call me not harsh, that thus I wreak
Late vengeance on your craven clay:
Help from a mightier Monarch seek;—
For mercy here 'twere vain to pray!
Unheeded wail, and fruitless tears;
By the love, even death hath not subdued;
By the calm delights of our early years;
By my widowed couch and withered heart;
By my broken hopes and burning brain;
By the feeling, now of my life a part;
By the vow, I never breathed in vain;—
Who deem thine earthly reign is o'er,
Shall yet to thee their homage pay,
With awe they never felt before:—
Shall see thee sitting by my side,
Uprisen from thy dreamless rest;
The sharer of my ‘place of pride,’—
A queen, a saint by all confessed!
The pile is laid, the banquet spread:
Why gleams so many a glittering steel
Above each craven traitor's head?
Put up your thirsting swords; 'twere vain
To give yon pyre a lifeless prey;—
I'll not abate a single pain
To guilt like theirs;—away! away!”
Two sculptured effigies recline;
A woman's one, in youth's first bloom;
A queen—a saint by many a sign!
There's a crown upon her placid brow,
And a regal robe around her thrown;
And charms that bid the gazer bow,
Are breathing from that simple stone.
With his sceptre by his side;
With a knitted brow and a look severe,
And a lip of scorn and pride!
His hand hath half unsheathed his sword,
As if some mortal foe defied;
He breathes some wild, revengeful word;—
'Twas thus King Pedro died!
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