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CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL.

105

“Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell
That which I pine to know!

I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,
Records of joy and woe."

CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL.

"Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrière bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femme aimée et d'une mère heureuse."

MADAME DE STAEL.

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!
Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll'd
Where the conqueror's pass'd of old;
And the festal sun that shone,
O'er three hundred triumphs gone,'
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road,
Freedom's foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,

Touch'd with many a gem-like stain.

The trebly hundred triumphs.—BYRON.

Thou hast gain'd the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;

Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre;

Shaking with victorious notes

All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!

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And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky

Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.

Radiant daughter of the sun!

Now thy living wreath is won.

Crown'd of Rome!-Oh! art thou not

Happy in that glorious lot?

THE RUIN.

Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the bumblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!

107

THE RUIN.

"Oh! 't is the heart that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of its own."

WORDSWORTH.

"Birth has gladden'd it: death has sanctified it."
Guesses at Truth.

No dower of storied song is thine,

O desolate abode!

Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flow'd.
Banners of knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o'er thy walls,
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung
Through thy resounding halls.

Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here
By courtly hands been dress'd,
For princes, from the chase of deer,
Under green leaves to rest:
Only some rose, yet lingering bright
Beside thy casements lone,
Tells where the spirit of delight

Hath dwelt, and now is gone.

Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign beauty's lot,

House of quench'd light and silent board!

For me thou needest not.

It is enough to know that here,
Where thoughtfully I stand,

Sorrow and love, and hope and fear,
Have link'd one kindred band.

Thou bindest me with mighty spells!
-A solemnizing breath,

A presence all around thee dwells,
Of human life and death.

I need but pluck yon garden flower
From where the wild weeds rise,

To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies.

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth!

Deserted now by all!

Voices at eve here met in mirth

Which eve may ne'er recall.

Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone,
And childhood's laughing glee,

And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.

Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd

Upon the infant head,

As if in every fervent word

The living soul were shed;

Thou hast seen partings, such as bear

The bloom from life away

Alas! for love in changeful air,

Where nought beloved can stay!

THE RUIN.

Here, by the restless bed of pain
The vigil hath been kept,

Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept:

Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,

The breathless influence, shed

Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposed the dead.

The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been mark'd and mourn'd,
And time hath fill'd the vacant place,
And gladness hath return'd;

Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropp'd one by one!
And homewards hither, o'er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.

Is there not cause, then-cause for thought,
Fix'd eye and lingering tread,

Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught,
Even lowliest hearts have bled?
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst
For draughts of purer day,

Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way?

Holy to human nature seems

The long-forsaken spot;

To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!

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