Page:Felicia Hemans in the New Monthly Magazine Volume 8 1823.pdf/17



came a Bard to Rome: he brought a lyre, Of sounds to peal through Rome's triumphal sky, To mourn a hero on his funeral pyre, Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high; For on each chord had fall'n the gift of fire, The living breath of Power and Victory! —Yet he, its lord, the sovereign city's guest, Sigh'd but to flee away, and be at rest.

He brought a spirit, whose ethereal birth Was of the loftiest, and whose haunts had been Amidst the marvels and the pomps of earth, Wild fairy-bowers, and groves of deathless green, And fields, where mail-clad bosoms prove their worth, When flashing swords light up the stormy scene. —He brought a weary heart, a wasted frame, The Child of Visions from a dungeon came.

On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep, With starlight floating o'er their swells and falls, On the blue waters of the Adrian deep, His numbers had been sung: and in the halls, Where, through rich foliage if a sunbeam peep, It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptured walls, Had princes listen'd to those lofty strains, While the high soul they burst from, pined in chains.

And in the summer-gardens, where the spray Of founts, far-glancing from their marble bed, Rains on the flowering myrtles in its play, And the sweet limes, and glossy leaves that spread Round the deep-golden citrons; o'er his lay Dark eyes, dark, soft, Italian eyes had shed Warm tears, fast-glittering in that sun, whose light Was a forbidden glory to his sight.

Oh! if it be that wizard sign and spell And talisman had power of old to bind, In the dark chambers of some cavern-cell, Or knotted oak, the Spirits of the Wind, Things of the lightning-pinion, wont to dwell High o'er the reach of eagles, and to find Joy in the rush of storms;—even such a doom Was that high Minstrel's in his dungeon-gloom.

But he was free at last!—the glorious land Of the white Alps and pine-crown'd Apennines, Along whose shore the sapphire seas expand, And the wastes teem with myrtle, and the shrines Of long-forgotten gods from Nature's hand Receive bright offerings still; with all its vines, And rocks, and ruins, clear before him lay— —The seal was taken from the founts of day.

The winds came o'er his cheek; the soft winds, blending All summer-sounds and odours in their sigh; The orange-groves waved round; the hills were sending Their bright streams down; the free birds darting by,