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beauty by our God, to those alone

      Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven

      Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,

      That high tone of the spirit which hath striven,

      Tho’ not with Faith—with godliness—whose throne

      With desperate energy ‘t hath beaten down;

      Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

       R

Tamerlane (1827)

      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!

      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 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

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