And a proud spirit which hath striven On mountain soil I first drew life: 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, 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 Rendered me mad, and deaf, and blind. Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires-with the captive's prayer— 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 Are shadows on th' unstable wind: Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt 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 every hope and thought Were incense-then a goodly gift, For they were childish and upright— Pure as her young example taught: Trust to the fire within for light? We grew in age-and love-together- My breast her shield in wintry weather And when the friendly sunshine smiled, And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven-but in her eyes. Young Love's first lesson is-the heart: For 'mid that sunshine and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, Of her- who ask'd no reason why, But turned on me her quiet eye! Yet more than worthy of the love When, on the mountain peak, alone, I had no being-but in thee: Its joy-its little lot of pain That was new pleasure -the ideal, Dim, vanities of dreams by night And dimmer nothings which were real (Shadows—and a more shadowy light !) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly, became Thine image and- -a name-a name! Two separate-yet most intimate things. I was ambitious-have you known The passion, father? You have not: A cottager, I mark'd a throne Of half the world as all my own, And murmured at such lowly lot |