LITMIR.BIZ

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Admiring Nature's universal throne;

       Her woods—her wilds—her mountains—the intense

       Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence!

      (BYRON, The Island.)

       I

      In youth have I known one with whom the Earth

       In secret communing held—as he with it,

       In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:

       Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit

       From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth

       A passionate light—such for his spirit was fit—

       And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour

       Of its own fervor what had o'er it power.

       II

      Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

       To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,

       But I will half believe that wild light fraught

       With more of sovereignty than ancient lore

       Hath ever told—or is it of a thought

       The unembodied essence, and no more,

       That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass

       As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?

       III

      Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye

       To the loved object—so the tear to the lid

       Will start, which lately slept in apathy?

       And yet it need not be—(that object) hid

       From us in life—but common—which doth lie

       Each hour before us—but then only, bid

       With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,

       To awake us—'Tis a symbol and a token

       IV

      Of what in other worlds shall be—and given

       In 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.

      Stanzas – to F. S. Osgood

       Table of Contents

      In youth have I known one with whom the Earth

       In secret communing held- as he with it,

       In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:

       Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit

       From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth

       A passionate light- such for his spirit was fit-

       And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour

       Of its own fervor what had o'er it power.

       Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

       To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,

       But I will half believe that wild light fraught

       With more of sovereignty than ancient lore

       Hath ever told- or is it of a thought

       The unembodied essence, and no more,

       That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass

       As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?

       Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye

       To the loved object- so the tear to the lid

       Will start, which lately slept in apathy?

       And yet it need not be- (that object) hid

       From us in life- but common- which doth lie

       Each hour before us- but then only, bid

       With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,

       To awake us- 'Tis a symbol and a token

       Of what in other worlds shall be- and given

       In 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.

      Tamerlane (early version)

       Table of Contents

       I.

      I have sent for thee, holy friar;

       But 'twas not with the drunken hope,

       Which is but agony of desire

       To shun the fate, with which to cope

       Is more than crime may dare to dream,

       That I have call'd thee at this hour:

       Such, father, is not my theme—

       Nor am I mad, to deem that power

       Of earth may shrive me of the sin

       Unearthly pride hath revelled in—

       I would not call thee fool, old man.

       But hope is not a gift of thine;

       If I can hope (O God! I can) It falls from an eternal shrine.

       II.

      The gay wall of this gaudy tower

       Grows dim around me—death is near.

       I had not thought, until this hour

       When passing from the earth, that ear

       Of any, were it not the shade

       Of one whom in life I made

       All mystery but a simple name,

       Might know the secret of a spirit

       Bow'd down in sorrow, and in shame.—

       Shame, said'st thou?

      Ay, I did inherit

       That hated portion, with the fame,

       The worldly glory, which has shown

       A demon-light around my throne,

       Scorching my sear'd heart with a pain

       Not Hell shall make me fear again.

       III.

      I have not always been as now—

       The fever'd diadem on my brow

       I claim'd and won usurpingly—

       Ay—the same heritage hath given

       Rome to the Cæsar—this to me;

       The heirdom of a kingly mind—

       And a

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