CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL

"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!

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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.'

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 STARL.

DAUGHTER of the Italian heaven!
Thou to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath rolled

Where the conqueror's passed 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 the 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,

Touched with many a gem-like stain.

Thou has gained the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;

Ω

F

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,
Touched 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.
Crowned 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!

THE SONG OF NIGHT

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THE SONG OF NIGHT

[SUGGESTED by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, represented under the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep in her arms.]

"O Night,

And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,

Yet lovely in your strength."-BYRON.

I COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts!-for every flower sweet dew

In bell and urn and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills or forest leaves,
But through its veins of beauty so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star;

Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,

Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace, I shed

Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!

Who calls me silent? I have many tones-
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades
Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,

Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crushed affections, which, tho' long o'erborne, Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb:

O'er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass-though low as murmurs of a dove-
Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train:

Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead—
Phantoms of heart and brain !

Looks from departed eyes,

These are my lightnings: filled with anguish vain, Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,

They smite with agonies.

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON 85

I, that with soft control,

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one !—the armed, the strong—
The searcher of the soul!

I, that shower dewy light

Thro'slumbering leaves, bring storms-the tempest-birth
Of memory, thought, remorse! Be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn Night!

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON

[PIETRO MULIER, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, "inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests and darkness-fired by lightning-now rising on the mountain-wave, and again submerged in the abyss of ocean." During an imprisonment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.-See LANZI's History of Painting, translated by Roscoe.]

"Where of ye, O ye tempests, is the goal? Are ye like those that shake the human breast?

Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?"

MIDNIGHT, and silence deep!

-The air is filled with sleep,

BYRON.

With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath;
The fixed and solemn stars

Gleam through my dungeon-bars

Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!