FullReads

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!
Th’ 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
Was giantlike – so thou, my mind! –
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 suiters – and the tone
Of flattery ’round a sovereign’s throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp’d a tyranny which men
Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power;
My innate nature – be it so:
But, father, there liv’d one who, then,
Then – in my boyhood – when their fire
Burn’d 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 th’ 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.

O, 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?