"We came, and to thy earth; but not to us
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night, we come and go,
Nor ask a reason, save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her God;
But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea;
But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
As glowing beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused 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.
SCIENCE, true daughter of old Time thou art,
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood.
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind-tree?
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 dues upon my head;
And, I believe, the wingèd 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.
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