Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Italy: Vols. XI–XIII. 1876–79. | | | | Rome, Hills of | | The Capitol: Tasso’s Coronation | | Felicia Hemans (1793–1835) |
| | | | Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his coronation in the Capitol. |
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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 crowned,—a kingly child of song: | |
| Yet his chariot lingers, | 5 |
| Yet around his home | |
| Broods a shadow silently, | |
| Midst the joy of Rome. | |
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| A thousand, thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and far, | |
| To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car; | 10 |
| A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers, | |
| To scatter o’er his path of fame bright hues in gemlike showers. | |
| Peace! Within his chamber | |
| Low the mighty lies,— | |
| With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, | 15 |
| And a wandering in his eyes. | |
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| 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, forever there to dwell, | |
| As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple’s holiest cell. | 20 |
| Yes! for him, the victor, | |
| Sing,—but low, sing low! | |
| A soft, sad miserere chant | |
| For a soul about to go! | |
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| The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o’er his way, | 25 |
| 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! | 30 |
| There needs no ray by the bed of death, | |
| Save the holy taper’s light. | |
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| 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,— | 35 |
| 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! | 40 | | |
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