But oh, that light!—I slumber'd-Death, the while, Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept,— or knew that he was there.
"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon.* More beauty clung around her column'd wall Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,† And when old Time my wing did disenthrall, Thence sprang I, as the eagle from his tower, And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung One half the garden of her globe was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my view Tenantless cities of the desert, too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me, then, And half I wish'd to be again of men."
"My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee; And greener fields than in yon world above, And woman's loveliness--and passionate love." "But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,‡
*It was entire in 1687,-the most elevated spot in Athens. Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.--Marlowe. ↑ Pennon--for pinion.—Milton.
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy; but the world I left so late was into chaos hurl'd,—
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar And fell,-not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion, through Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours: For nearest of all stars was thine to ours,- Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth, A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.
"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 firefly 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 unfurl'd 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 swell'd upon the sky, As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's сус, We paus'd before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled,-as doth Beauty then!"
Thus, in discourse, the lovers whil'd away The night that waned and waned and brought
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty-the unhidden heart- The playful maziness of art In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks, Which glistens then, and trembles,- Why, then, the prettiest of brooks Her worshiper resembles; For in his heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies,―
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
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 revel'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 divineI 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.
Oh, 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!
Oh, 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 fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd 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 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:
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