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. TO THE RIVER FAIR river in thy bright, clear flow Of beauty-the unhidden heart- In old Alberto's daughter; But when within thy wave she looks-- Her worshipper resembles; His heart which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching eyes. TAMERLANE. KIND solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my themeI will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin I have no time to dote or dream: If I can hope-Oh God! I can― Its fount is holier-more divineI would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine. Know thou the secret of a spirit 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 : The heritage of a kingly mind, Un 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) The battle-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 praverThe hum of suitors-and the tone Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, But, father, there liv'd one who, then, I have no words-alas !-to tell shadows on th' unstable wind: 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: For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, Yet more than worthy of the love |