CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.
“Les femmes doivent penser qu’il est dans cette carriere bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d’une femme aimee et d’une mere 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,[377]
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.
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!
Now afar it rolls—it dies—
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?—
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!
[377] “The trebly hundred triumphs.”—Byron.