Corinne At The Capitol

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven! Thou, to whom its fires are given, Joyously thy car hath roll'd Where the conqueror's pass'd of old; And the festal sun that shone, O'er three hundred triumphs gone, Makes thy day of glory bright, With a shower of golden light. Now thou tread'st th' ascending road, Freedom's foot so proudly trode; While, from tombs of heroes borne, From the dust of empire shorn, Flowers upon thy graceful head, Chaplets of all hues, are shed, In a soft and rosy rain, Touch'd with many a gem-like stain. Thou hast gain'd the summit now! Music hails thee from below; Music, whose rich notes might stir Ashes of the sepulchre; Shaking with victorious notes All the bright air as it floats. Well may woman's heart beat high Unto that proud harmony! Now afar it rolls-it dies- And thy voice is heard to rise With a low and lovely tone In its thrilling power alone; And thy lyre's deep silvery string, Touched as by a breeze's wing, Murmurs tremblingly at first, Ere the tide of rapture burst. All the spirit of thy sky Now hath lit thy large dark eye, And thy cheek a flush hath caught From the joy of kindled thought; And the burning words of song From thy lip flow fast and strong, With a rushing stream's delight In the freedom of its might. Radiant daughter of the sun! Now thy living wreath is won. Crown'd of Rome!-Oh! art thou not Happy in that glorious lot?- Happier, happier far than thou, With the laurel on thy brow, She that makes the humblest hearth Lovely but to one on earth!