Page 89 of 172 TAMERLANE - Complete Poetical Works

TAMERLANE.

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 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,

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 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

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.

My passions, from that hapless hour,

Usurped a tyranny which men

Have deemed since I have reached to power,

My innate nature--be it so:

But, father, there lived one who, then,

Then--in my boyhood--when their fire

		God hangs the greatest weights upon the smallest wires. "Francis Bacon, Sir"