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.”
Salathiel.
A deep-toned lyre hung murmuring
To the wild wind of the sea;
“O melancholy wind,” it sigh’d,
“What would thy breath with me?
“Thou canst not wake the spirit
That in me slumbering lies,
Thou strikest not forth th’ electric fire
Of buried melodies.
“Wind of the dark sea-waters!
Thou dost but sweep my strings
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.
“But the spell—the gift—the lightning—
Within my frame conceal’d,
Must I moulder on the rock away
With their triumphs unreveal’d?
“I have power, high power, for freedom
To wake the burning soul!
I have sounds that through the ancient hills
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 violet’s 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.[384]
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.
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 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,
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 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,
Save the holy taper’s light.
The wreath is twined—the way is strewn—the 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—
Way for the bier!—make way!
[384] Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his coronation in the Capitol.