TASSO'S CORONATION.

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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!

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,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"Not there, not there, my child!”

"Is it far away, in some region old,

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Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child!

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there:
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child!"

THE WOUNDED EAGLE.

EAGLE! this is not thy sphere!

Warrior-bird! what seek'st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed

Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn,

Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn!

Eagle wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won!
And the mountain lark is there,

And sweet sound hath fill'd the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
-Oh! it can be but to die!

Eagle, eagle! thou hast bow'd
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou, that hadst ethereal birth,

Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee!
-Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?

Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was thy sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
-Woe for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?

SADNESS AND MIRTH.

143

SADNESS AND MIRTH.

"Nay, these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind,
As it has lower'd of late, so keenly cast,
Unsuited seem, and strange.

Oh! nothing strange,

Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud,
In the sunn'd glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?

Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit's path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
O, gentle friend,

Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
And may be so to-morrow!"

JOANNA BAILLIE.

YE met at the stately feasts of old,

Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold,
Sadness and mirth! ye were mingled there

With the sound of the lyre in the scented air;
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high,
Ye mix'd in the gorgeous revelry.

For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom,
A thought and a shadow of the tomb;
It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone,
To the rose a colouring not its own,

To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power-
Sadness and mirth! ye had each your dower!

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by,
With the Roman eagles through the sky!