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 revelled 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.*
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.
* Here we have traces enough of the influences of Byronism on the poet's youth. Those were the days when the "teethgrinding, 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.
I have not always been as now: The fevered diadem on my brow I claimed and won usurpingly. Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Cæsar, 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 (Oh, how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry!)
The battle-cry of victory!
The rain came down upon my head Unsheltered; 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.
My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurped a tyranny which men.
Have deemed, since I have reached to power, My innate nature—be it so:
But, father, there lived one who then,— Then, in my boyhood, when their fire Burned 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 the 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.
Oh, 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 hope and thought Were incense: then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright, Pure 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, Roaming the forest and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather; And, when the friendly sunshine smiled, And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no heaven but in her eyes.
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, I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears— There was no need to speak the rest— No need to quiet any fears
Of her, who asked no reason why,
But turned on me her quiet eye.
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