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, 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? THE BETTER LAND. Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 141 "Is it far away, in some region old, 66 -"Not there, not there, my child! Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! THE WOUNDED EAGLE. EAGLE! this is not thy sphere! Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn! Eagle wilt thou not arise? And sweet sound hath fill'd the air; Eagle, eagle! thou hast bow'd Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth, Wert thou weary of thy throne? SADNESS AND MIRTH. 143 SADNESS AND MIRTH. "Nay, these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter Oh! nothing strange, Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, JOANNA BAILLIE. YE met at the stately feasts of old, Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold, With the sound of the lyre in the scented air; For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom, To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power- Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by, |