Page:Songs before sunrise (IA beforesunrisongs00swinrich).pdf/65

 Priest, though thou hallow us these, Yet even as they cling to thy knees Nation awakens by nation, King by king disappears.

How shall the spirit be loyal To the shell of a spiritless thing? Erred once, in only a word, The sweet great song that we heard Poured upon Tuscany, erred, Calling a crowned man royal That was no more than a king.

Sea-eagle of English feather, A song-bird beautiful-souled, She knew not them that she sang; The golden trumpet that rang From Florence, in vain for them, sprang As a note in the nightingales' weather Far over Fiesole rolled.

She saw not—happy, not seeing— Saw not as we with her eyes Aspromonte; she felt Never the heart in her melt