Poems (McDonald)/Tasso's Crown
TASSO'S CROWN.
"It was resolved, that the greatest living poet of Italy should be crowned with the laurelin the imperial city, as Petrarch had been more than two hundred and fifty years before.The decree to that effect was passed by the Pope and the Senate; but ere the day of triumph came, Tasso was seized with an illness, which he instantly felt would be mortal. At his own request, he was immediately conveyed to the neighbouring Monastery of St. Onofario, where, surrounded by the consolations of that faith which had been through life his constant support, be patiently awaited what he firmly believed would be the issue of his malady. He expired in the arms of Cardinal Ciutbio Aldohrandini. The Cardinal had brought him the Pope's benediction; on receiving which, he exclaimed, 'This is the crown with which I hope to be crowned, not as a poet in the capital, but with the glory of the blessed in heaven.'"
The gifted poet lies—
Haste!—bring the bright triumphal crown,
The victor's glorious prize:
Not here should be his resting place,
Fame beckons him away,
With laurel wreath his brow to grace
Upon no distant day.
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.
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.
Nor laurel wreath shall wear,
But bending with the cherubin,
In adoration there—
Before Jehovah's throne—with them
Shall gain a crown of light,
A fair, eternal diadem,
Nor time, nor change can blight.
Be mine to seek the sky—
Come, blessed hour, and bring the birth
Of immortality;
Not here, not here, my tuneless lyre,
Thy notes again shall swell;
A golden harp, with strings of fire,
Emmanuel's praise shall tell.
What, but an idle breath!
I yield the glory of a name
To thy dominion, death.
Not with thy lofty sons, O Rome,
The garland shall I wear—
A crown of pure, unfading light
In heaven, awaits me there.
Which wild ambition gave,
Have faded like the sunset gleams
That gild the distant wave;
But fairer visions fill my breast,
And cheer my closing eye—
For angels, pointing to my rest,
Smile on me as I die."
Hallowed Italia's clime—
Serenely, joyously away,
Just in his manhood's prime:
Exchanged the poet's wreath of fame,
The bard's entrancing lyre,
For brighter crowns, and holier lays,
With heaven's angelic choir.