Corinne rose, as the Prince finished his oration. She thanked him by an inclination of the head, which diffidently betrayed her sense of having been praised in a strain after her own heart. It was the custom for a poet, crowned at the capitol, to extemporize or recite in verse, ere receiving the destined bays. Corinne sent for her chosen instrument, the lyre, more antique in form, and simpler in sound, than the harp; while tuning it, she was oppressed by so violent a tremor, that her voice trembled as she asked what theme she was to attempt. "The glory and welfare of Italy!" cried all near her. "Ah, yes!" she exclaimed, already sustained by her own talents; "the glory and welfare of Italy!" Then, animated by her love of country, she breathed forth thoughts to which prose or another language can do but imperfect justice. CHANT OF CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.[1] Cradle of Letters! Mistress of the World! Soil of the Sun! Italia! I salute thee! How oft the human race have worn thy yoke, The vessels of thine arms, thine arts, thy sky! Olympus for Ausonia once was left, And by a god. Of such a land are born Dreams of the golden time, for there man looks Too happy to suppose him criminal. By genius Rome subdued the world, then reign'd A queen by liberty. The Roman mind Set its own stamp upon the universe; And, when barbarian hordes whelm'd Italy, Then darkness was entire upon the earth. Italia reappear'd, and with her rose Treasures divine, brought by the wandering Greeks; To her were then reveal'd the laws of Heaven. Her daring children made discovery Of a new hemisphere: Queen still, she held Thought's sceptre; but that laurel'd sceptre made Ungrateful subjects. Imagination gave her back the world Which she had lost. Painters and poets shaped Earth and Olympus, and a heaven and hell. Her animating fire, by Genius kept, Far better guarded than the Pagan god's, Found not in Europe a Prometheus To bear it from her. And wherefore am I at the capitol? Why should my lowly brow receive the crown Which Petrarch wore? which yet suspended hangs Where Tasso's funeral cypress mournful waves: Why? oh, my countrymen! but that you love Glory so well that you repay its search Almost like its success. Now, if you love that glory which too oft Chooses its victims from its vanquishers, Those which itself has crown'd; think, and be proud Of days which saw the perish'd Arts reborn. Your Dante! Homer of the Christian age, The sacred poet of Faith's mysteries-- Hero of thought--whose gloomy genius plunged In Styx, and pierced to hell; and whose deep soul Was like the abyss it fathom'd.