Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 24 1828.pdf/4



A crown of victory! a triumphal song! Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart The weary one may calmly sink to rest; Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, Pour the last prayer for mortal agony.

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, th' imperial streets along, For again a conqueror must be crown'd, a kingly child of song.

A thousand thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and far, To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car; 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,

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 a full-toned Oracle's enshrined in a temple's holiest cell.

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!

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!

F. H.