Thou, making death deep joy!--but could'st thou die? From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn, THE LYRE'S LAMENT. "A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its melancholy music to the wind-but no human being was to be seen." A DEEP-TONED lyre hung murmuring "O melancholy wind," it sigh'd, "What would thy breath with me? "Thou can'st not wake the spirit That in me slumbering lies, Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire "Wind of the dark sea-waters! Thou dost but sweep my strings Into wild gusts of mournfulness, With the rushing of thy wings. Salathiel. THE LYRE'S LAMENT. "But the spell-the gift-the lightning Within my frame conceal'd, Must I moulder on the rock away, "I have power, high power, for freedom I have sounds that through the ancient hills "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. 137 "And love-for love's lone sorrow "Soft-spiritual—mournful— Sighs in each note enshrined- Thou canst 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! A TRUMPET'S note is in the sky, in the glorious 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, 'Midst the joy of Rome. A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far, To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car; 1 Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his coronation in the Capitol. TASSO'S CORONATION. 139 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, Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose rushing strain In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the main ! 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, The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day; Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsars' past renown Bring 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, The wreath is twined lordly train are met 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, In his last array; From love and grief the freed, the flown- THE BETTER LAND. "I 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? |