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will.

      Yes! I was proud—and ye who know

       The magic of that meaning word,

       So oft perverted, will bestow

       Your scorn, perhaps, when ye have heard

       That the proud spirit had been broken,

       The proud heart burst in agony

       At one upbraiding word or token

       Of her that heart's idolatry—

       I was ambitious—have ye known

       Its fiery passion?—ye have not—

       A cottager, I mark'd a throne

       Of half the world, as all my own,

       And murmur'd at such lowly lot!

       But it had pass'd me as a dream

       Which, of light step, flies with the dew,

       That kindling thought—did not the beam

       Of Beauty, which did guide it through

       The livelong summer day, oppress

       My mind with double loveliness—

      *****

       X.

      We walk'd together on the crown

       Of a high mountain, which look'd down

       Afar from its proud natural towers

       Of rock and forest, on the hills—

       The dwindled hills, whence amid bowers

       Her own fair hand had rear'd around,

       Gush'd shoutingly a thousand rills,

       Which as it were, in fairy bound

       Embraced two hamlets—those our own—

       Peacefully happy—yet alone—

      *****

      I spoke to her of power and pride—

       But mystically, in such guise,

       That she might deem it nought beside

       The moment's converse; in her eyes

       I read (perhaps too carelessly)

       A mingled feeling with my own;

       The flush on her bright cheek, to me,

       Seem'd to become a queenly throne

       Too well, that I should let it be

       A light in the dark wild, alone.

       XI.

      There—in that hour—a thought came o'er

       My mind, it had not known before—

       To leave her while we both were young,—

       To follow my high fate among

       The strife of nations, and redeem

       The idle words, which, as a dream

       Now sounded to her heedless ear—

       I held no doubt—I knew no fear

       Of peril in my wild career;

       To gain an empire, and throw down

       As nuptial dowry—a queen's crown,

       The only feeling which possest,

       With her own image, my fond breast—

       Who, that had known the secret thought

       Of a young peasant's bosom then,

       Had deem'd him, in compassion, aught

       But one, whom fantasy had led

       Astray from reason—Among men

       Ambition is chain'd down—nor fed

       (As in the desert, where the grand,

       The wild, the beautiful, conspire

       With their own breath to fan its fire)

       With thoughts such feeling can command;

       Uncheck'd by sarcasm, and scorn

       Of those, who hardly will conceive

       That any should become "great," born

       In their own sphere—will not believe

       That they shall stoop in life to one

       Whom daily they are wont to see

       Familiarly—whom Fortune's sun

       Hath ne'er shone dazzlingly upon,

       Lowly—and of their own degree—

       XII.

      I pictured to my fancy's eye

       Her silent, deep astonishment,

       When, a few fleeting years gone by,

       (For short the time my high hope lent

       To its most desperate intent,)

       She might recall in him, whom Fame

       Had gilded with a conqueror's name,

       (With glory—such as might inspire

       Perforce, a passing thought of one,

       Whom she had deemed in his own fire

       Withered and blasted; who had gone

       A traitor, violate of the truth

       So plighted in his early youth,)

       Her own Alexis, who should plight

       The love he plighted then—again. And raise his infancy's delight. The bride and queen of Tamerlane.—

       XIII.

      One noon of a bright summer's day

       I pass'd from out the matted bower

       Where in a deep, still slumber lay

       My Ada. In that peaceful hour,

       A silent gaze was my farewell.

       I had no other solace—then

       To awake her, and a falsehood tell

       Of a feign'd journey, were again

       To trust the weakness of my heart

       To her soft thrilling voice: To part

       Thus, haply, while in sleep she dream'd

       Of long delight, nor yet had deem'd

       Awake, that I had held a thought

       Of parting, were with madness fraught;

       I knew not woman's heart, alas!

       Tho' loved, and loving—let it pass.—

       XIV.

      I went from out the matted bower,

       And hurried madly on my way:

       And felt, with every flying hour,

       That bore me from my home, more gay;

       There is of earth an agony

       Which, ideal, still may be

       The worst ill of mortality.

       'Tis bliss, in its own reality,

       Too real, to his breast who lives Not within himself but gives A portion of his willing soul To God, and to the great whole— To him, whose loving spirit will dwell With Nature, in her wild paths; tell Of her wondrous ways, and telling bless Her overpowering loveliness! A more than agony to him Whose failing sight will grow dim With its own living gaze upon That loveliness around: the sun— The blue sky—the misty light Of the pale cloud therein, whose hue Is grace to its heavenly bed of blue; Dim! tho' looking on all bright! O God! when the thoughts that may not pass Will burst upon him, and alas! For the flight on Earth to Fancy given, There are no words—unless of Heaven.

      

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