tasso's crown.
59
No distant day!—Alas! For him
Vainly the leaves are twined—
The pulse beats low, the eye grows dim.
Where reason sat enshrined;
Disease is preying on his frame,
And death has paled his brow—
To the dread despot's mighty, power
He bends a victim now.
Vainly the leaves are twined—
The pulse beats low, the eye grows dim.
Where reason sat enshrined;
Disease is preying on his frame,
And death has paled his brow—
To the dread despot's mighty, power
He bends a victim now.
They bear a blessing to his couch,
It wakes that death-like trance,
And o'er the dying poet's soul
Celestial visions glance:
Hope lights the pathway to the tomb,
Faith speaks of sin forgiven—
"Be this," he cried, "my better crown,
Joy with the blessed in heaven.
It wakes that death-like trance,
And o'er the dying poet's soul
Celestial visions glance:
Hope lights the pathway to the tomb,
Faith speaks of sin forgiven—
"Be this," he cried, "my better crown,
Joy with the blessed in heaven.
"Not earthly honors shall I win,
Nor laurel wreath shall wear,
But bending with the cherubin,
In adoration there—
Nor laurel wreath shall wear,
But bending with the cherubin,
In adoration there—
