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 I have no time to dote or dream : 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 I have not always been as now: The mists of the Taglay have shed So late from Heaven-that dew-it fell While the red flashing of the light Of human battle, where my voice- The rain came down upon my head Unshelter'd; and the heavy wind Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. It was but man, I thought, who shed Of empires-with the captive's prayer- Of flattery round a sovereign's throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, But, father, there lived one who, then, I have no words, alas! to tell Oh, she was worthy of all love! |