"I have power, high power, for freedom
To wake the burning soul!
I have sounds that through the ancient hilis
Like a torrent's voice might roll.
"I have pealing notes of victory
That might welcome kings from war;
I have rich deep tones to send the wail
For a hero's death afar.
"I have chords to lift the pæan
From the temple to the sky,
Full as the forest-unisons
When sweeping winds are high.
"And love-for love's lone sorrow
I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose's breath,
Or the violets' faint farewell:
"Soft-spiritual-mournful—
Sighs in each note enshrined
But who shall call that sweetness forth?
Thou can'st not, ocean-wind!
"I pass without my glory,
Forgotten I decay-
Where is the touch to give me life?
-Wild, fitful wind, away!"
So sigh'd the broken music
That in gladness had no part-
How like art thou, neglected lyre,
To many a human heart!
TASSO'S CORONATION.*
A crown of victory! a triumphal song!
Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart
The weary one may calmly sink to rest;
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch,
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony !
A TRUMPET'S note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky, Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory;
There is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial streets along, For again a conqueror must be crown'd-a kingly child of song:
Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,
'Midst the joy of Rome.
*Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his coronation in the Capital.
A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far,
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car;
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of
flowers,
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gem-like showers.
Peace! within his chamber
Low the mighty lies;
With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow,
And a wandering in his eyes.
Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose rushing
[main! In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to dwell,
As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell.
Yes! for him, the victor,
Sing-but low, sing low!
A soft sad miserere chant
For a soul about to go!
The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way,
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of gold
en day; Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsars' past reBring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown'
Shut the proud bright sunshine
From the fading sight!
There needs no ray by the bed of death,
Save the holy taper's light.
The wreath is twined-the way is strewn-the lordly trair are
The streets are hung with coronals-why stays the minstrel yet?
Shout! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief-
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief!
Silence! forth we bring him,
From love and grief the freed, the flown-
Way for the bier-make way!
"1 HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?”
-"Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ?— Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?" -"Not there, not there, my child!"
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there:
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there it there, my child !"
EAGLE! this is not thy sphere!
Warrior-bird! what seek'st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn!
Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won?
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath fill'd the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
-Oh! it can be but to die!
Eagle, eagle! thou hast bow'd
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou, that had'st ethereal birth,
Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death hath bound thee.
-Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?
SADNESS AND MIRTH
Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was thy sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
-Woe for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?
"Nay, these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind,
As it has lower'd of late, so keenly cast,
Unsuited seem, and strange.
Did'st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud,
In the sunn'd glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit's path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
O, gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
And may be so to-morrow!"-Joanna Baillie.
YE met at the stately feasts of old,
Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold,
Sadness and mirth! ye were mingled there
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air;
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high,
Ye mix'd in the gorgeous revelry.
For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom,
A thought and a shadow of the tomb;
It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone,
To the rose a coloring not its own,
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power-
Sadness and mirth! ye had each your dower!
Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by,
With the Roman eagles through the sky!
I know that even then, in his hour of pride,
The soul of the mighty within him died;
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still,
Which the music of victory might never fill!
Thou wert there, oh, mirth! swelling on the shout,
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out;
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine,
All the rich voices in air were thine,
The incense, the sunshine-but, sadness, thy part,
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart!
Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear;
Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier!
As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed,
Crosses the storm in its path of dread;
As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky-
Sadness and mirth! so ye come and fly!
Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast,
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest!
When the breath of the violet is out in spring,
When the woods with the wakening of music ring,
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass,
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass.
When will your parting be, sadness and mirth?
Bright stream and dark one!-oh! never on earth!
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near,
While death and love walk the same dim sphere,
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep,
While the heart of man is a soundless deep!
But there smiles a land, oh! ye troubled pair!
Where ye have no part in the summer air.
Far from the breathings of changeful skies,
Over the seas and the graves it lies;
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done,
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun!
THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH-SONG
Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen
Die mit seelenvollen melodie
Dich entzückten in des Lenzes Tagen ?
-Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie.-Schiller
MOUNFULLY, Sing mournfully,
And die away, my heart!
The rose, the glorious rose is gone,
And I, too, will depart.
The skies have lost their splendor,
The waters changed their tone,
And wherefore, in the faded world,
Should music linger on?
Where is the golden sunshine,
And where flower-cup's glow?
And where the joy of the dancing leaves,
And the fountain's laughing flow?
A voice, in every whisper
Of the wave, the bough, the air,
Comes asking for the beautiful,
And moaning, "Where, oh! where?"
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