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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 fairer 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 swelled upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused 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.

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TAMERLANE.

Kind solace in a dying hour!

Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
I will not madly deem thy 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—O 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.*

Ii.

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.

* Here we have traces enough of the influence of Byronism on the poet's youth. Those were the days when the "teeth-grinding, glass-eyed lone Caloyer"—to use Carlyle's words—was the ideal of the rising generation.. —Ed.

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,
Upon thy emptiness—a knell.

in.

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.

IV.

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.

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V.

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,

Appear'd 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
(Oh! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!

VI.

The rain came down upon my head
Unshelter'd—and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad, and deaf, and blind.

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 suitors, and the tone

Of flattery round a sovereign's throne.

VII.

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 lived 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.

vin.

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.

IX.

Oh, she was worthy of all love!
Love—as in infancy was mine—

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