Tamerlane
Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my themeвБ†вАФ
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revelled inвБ†вАФ
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hopeвБ†вАФthat fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hopeвБ†вАФO God! I canвБ†вАФ
Its fount is holierвБ†вАФmore divineвБ†вАФ
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bowed 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 againвБ†вАФ
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
ThвАЩ undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptinessвБ†вАФa knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fevered diadem on my brow
I claimed and won usurpinglyвБ†вАФ
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the CaesarвБ†вАФthis 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 wingèd strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.
So late from HeavenвБ†вАФthat dewвБ†вАФit fell
(вАЩMid 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, oвАЩer,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy;
And the deep trumpet-thunderвАЩs roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!вБ†вАФwas 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
UnshelteredвБ†вАФand the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rushвБ†вАФ
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empiresвБ†вАФwith the captiveвАЩs prayerвБ†вАФ
The hum of suitorsвБ†вАФand the tone
Of flattery вАЩround a sovereignвАЩs throne.
My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurped a tyranny which men
Have deemed since I have reached to power,
My innate natureвБ†вАФbe it so:
But, father, there lived one who, then,
ThenвБ†вАФin my boyhoodвБ†вАФwhen their fire
Burned with a still intenser glow
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
EвАЩen then who knew this iron heart
In womanвАЩs weakness had a part.
I have no wordsвБ†вАФalas!вБ†вАФto 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 вЄї shadows on thвАЩ unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The lettersвБ†вАФwith their meaningвБ†вАФmelt
To fantasiesвБ†вАФwith none.
O, she was worthy of all love!
Love as in infancy was mineвБ†вАФ
вАЩTwas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my evвАЩry hope and thought
Were incenseвБ†вАФthen a goodly gift,
For they were childish and uprightвБ†вАФ
PureвБ†вАФas her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?
We grew in ageвБ†вАФand loveвБ†вАФtogetherвБ†вАФ
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weatherвБ†вАФ
And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no HeavenвБ†вАФbut in her eyes.
Young LoveвАЩs first lesson isвБ†вАФthe heart:
For вАЩmid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
IвАЩd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tearsвБ†вАФ
There was no need to speak the restвБ†вАФ
No need to quiet any fears
Of herвБ†вАФwho asked no reason why,
But turned on me her quiet eye!
Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new toneвБ†вАФ
I had no beingвБ†вАФbut in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earthвБ†вАФthe airвБ†вАФthe seaвБ†вАФ
Its joyвБ†вАФits little lot of pain
That was new pleasureвБ†вАФthe ideal,
Dim, vanities of dreams by nightвБ†вАФ
And dimmer nothings which were realвБ†вАФ
(ShadowsвБ†вАФand a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image, andвБ†вАФa nameвБ†вАФa name!
Two separateвБ†вАФyet most intimate things.
I was ambitiousвБ†вАФhave you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I marked a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmured at such lowly lotвБ†вАФ
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapor of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it throвАЩ
The minuteвБ†вАФthe hourвБ†вАФthe dayвБ†вАФoppress
My mind with double loveliness.
We walked together on the crown
Of a high mountain which looked down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hillsвБ†вАФ
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
And shouting with a thousand rills.
I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mysticallyвБ†вАФin such guise
That she might deem it naught beside
The momentвАЩs converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelesslyвБ†вАФ
A mingled feeling with my ownвБ†вАФ
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seemed to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.
I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
And donned a visionary crownвБ†вАФ
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over meвБ†вАФ
But that, among the rabbleвБ†вАФmen,
Lion ambition is chained downвБ†вАФ
And crouches to a keeperвАЩs handвБ†вАФ
Not so in deserts where the grandвБ†вАФ
The wildвБ†вАФthe terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.
Look вАЩround thee now on Samarkand!вБ†вАФ
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
FallingвБ†вАФher veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throneвБ†вАФ
And who her sovereign? TimourвБ†вАФhe
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding oвАЩer empires haughtily
A diademed outlaw!
O, human love! thou spirit given,
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fallвАЩst into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless
But leavвАЩst the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound
And beauty of so wild a birthвБ†вАФ
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopinglyвБ†вАФ
And homeward turned his softened eye.
вАЩTwas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the evвАЩning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly,
But can not, from a danger nigh.
What thoвАЩ the moonвБ†вАФthoвАЩ the white moon
Shed all the splendor of her noon,
Her smile is chillyвБ†вАФand her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood in a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest oneвБ†вАФ
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flownвБ†вАФ
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noonday beautyвБ†вАФwhich is all.
I reached my homeвБ†вАФmy home no moreвБ†вАФ
For all had flown who made it so.
I passed from out its mossy door,
And, thoвАЩ my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier knownвБ†вАФ
O! I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heartвБ†вАФa deeper woe.
Father, I firmly do believeвБ†вАФ
I knowвБ†вАФfor Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing throвАЩ EternityвБ†вАФ
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human pathвБ†вАФ
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, LoveвБ†вАФ
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt-offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellised rays from Heaven
No mote may shunвБ†вАФno tiniest flyвБ†вАФ
The lightвАЩning of his eagle eyeвБ†вАФ
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of LoveвАЩs very hair?