TAMERLANE. KIND solace in a dying hour! Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Its fount is holier—more divine— I would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine. Know thou the secret of a spirit Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. O yearning heart! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the Jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again— O craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, I have not always been as now: I claim'd and won usurpingly——— The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind. On mountain soil I first drew life: So late from Heaven-that dew-it fell ('Mid dreams of an unholy night) Upon me with the touch of Hell, While the red flashing of the light From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, Appeared to my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy, And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of human battle, where my voice, My own voice, silly child!--was swelling (O! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry) cry of Victory! The rain came down upon my head Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires-with the captive's prayerThe hum of suitors-and the tone Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, But, father, there liv'd one who, then, I have no words-alas !-to tell O, she was worthy of all love! Love-as in infancy was mine'Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense-then a goodly gift, For they were childish and uprightPure as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light? We grew in age-and love-together- Young Love's first lesson is- -the heart: And laughing at her girlish wiles, Yet more than worthy of the love Dim, vanities of dreams by nightAnd dimmer nothings which were real— (Shadows and a more shadowy light!) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly, became Thine image and—a name—a name! Two separate-yet most intimate things. I was ambitious-have you known The passion, father? You have not: A cottager, I mark'd a throne Of half the world as all my own, And murmur'd at such lowly lot— But, just like any other dream, My own had past, did not the beam Of beauty which did while it thro' The minute-the hour-the day-oppress My mind with double loveliness. We walk'd together on the crown Of a high mountain which look'd down I spoke to her of power and pride, |