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The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon *Was a proud temple call’d the Parthenon— More beauty clung around her column’d wall **Than ev’n thy glowing bosom beats withal, And when old Time my wing did disenthral Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower, And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung One half the garden of her globe was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my view— Tenantless cities of the desert too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, And half I wish’d to be again of men.” “My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee— * It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens. ** Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.—Marlowe. And greener fields than in yon world above, And women’s loveliness—and passionate love.” “But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft *Fail’d, as my pennon’d spirit leapt aloft, Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world I left so late was into chaos hurl’d— Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, And roll’d, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar And fell—not swiftly as I rose before, But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’ Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours, For nearest of all stars was thine to ours— Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth, A red Dædalion on the timid Earth. “We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss: We came, my love; around, above, below, Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go, Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod She grants to us, as granted by her God— But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl’d Never his fairy wing o’er fairier world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea— But when its glory swell’d upon the sky, As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye, * Pennon—for pinion.—Milton. We paus’d before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!” Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
TAMERLANE Kind solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme— I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revell’d in— I have no time to dote or dream: You call it hope—that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire: If I can hope—Oh God! I can— 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! Th’ undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness—a knell. I have not always been as now: The fever’d diadem on my brow I claim’d and won usurpingly— Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Caesar—this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind. On mountain soil I first drew life: The mists of the Taglay have shed Nightly their dews upon my head, And, I believe, the winged strife And tumult of the headlong air Have nestled in my very hair. 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) The battle-cry of Victory! The rain came down upon my head Unshelter’d—and the heavy wind Was giantlike—so thou, my mind!— It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush— The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires—with the captive’s prayer— The hum of suiters—and the tone Of flattery ‘round a sovereign’s throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp’d a tyranny which men Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power; My innate nature—be it so: But, father, there liv’d one who, then, Then—in my boyhood—when their fire Burn’d with a still intenser glow, (For passion must, with youth, expire) E’en then who knew this iron heart In woman’s weakness had a part. I have no words—alas!—to tell The loveliness of loving well! Nor would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are—shadows on th’ unstable wind: Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters—with their meaning—melt To fantasies—with none. 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 ev’ry
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