126
Poems
ITALIA'S FORNARINA.
Wouldst hear from me a tale of love and woe?
Then listen to one read long years ago.
I have forgotten much, so fancy may
Fill in the portions time has swept away.
Then listen to one read long years ago.
I have forgotten much, so fancy may
Fill in the portions time has swept away.
It was one night, when the Raphael was young,
And with the artist's praises nations rung;
The place,—a theatre in mighty Rome,
Where beauty, pomp, and power were wont to come,—
But hold! too long have I this preface spun;
Ring up the curtain, for my tale's begun!
And with the artist's praises nations rung;
The place,—a theatre in mighty Rome,
Where beauty, pomp, and power were wont to come,—
But hold! too long have I this preface spun;
Ring up the curtain, for my tale's begun!
Each wandering eye within this Roman hall,
Turn toward the stage; and Music—friend of all—
Soon shall a dearer cadence than thy strain
Steal to each heart, with freight of joy, or pain;
It soars aloft, e'en to the height of thought,—
Before whose chime thy richest notes are naught.
Turn toward the stage; and Music—friend of all—
Soon shall a dearer cadence than thy strain
Steal to each heart, with freight of joy, or pain;
It soars aloft, e'en to the height of thought,—
Before whose chime thy richest notes are naught.
