Emotions and Feelings

To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sereThe
leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of WeirIt
was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my SoulOf
cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.


There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that rollAs
the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the poleThat
groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sereOur
memories were treacherous and sere


For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year(
Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber(
Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to mornAs
the star-dials hinted of morn


At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent


Arose with a duplicate hornAstarte's
bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.


And I said- 'She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighsShe
revels in a region of sighs:


She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skiesTo
the Lethean peace of the skies


Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes



Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.'


But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said- 'Sadly this star I mistrustHer
pallor I strangely mistrust:


Oh, hasten!- oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must.'
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust


In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dustTill
they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.


I replied- 'This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!


Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:See!-
it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright


We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.'

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloomAnd
conquered her scruples and gloom;


And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tombBy
the door of a legended tomb;

And I said- 'What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?'
She replied- 'Ulalume- Ulalume'
Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!'


Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sereAs
the leaves that were withering and sere


And I cried- 'It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed- I journeyed down hereThat
I brought a dread burden down hereOn
this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of AuberThis
misty mid region of WeirWell
I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.'

To --

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips- and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words


Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined,
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall


Thy heart- thy heart!- I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buyOf
the baubles that it may.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber doorOnly
this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore


For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name LenoreNameless
here for evermore.


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door


Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;This
it is, and nothing more.'


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,


That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door;Darkness
there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'Merely
this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore


Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;'
Tis the wind and nothing more.'


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber doorPerched
upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber doorPerched,
and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shoreTell
me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door


Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as 'Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he flutteredTill
I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown

beforeOn
the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore


Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and

door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore


What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'


'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
devil!


Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchantedOn
this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore


Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'


'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil!


By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adoreTell
this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore


Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'


'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked,
upstarting


'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'


And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the

floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palaceRadiant
palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominionIt
stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever


And laugh- but smile no more.
-THE END


.

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palaceRadiant
palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominionIt
stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever


And laugh- but smile no more.
-THE END


.

The Forest Reverie

'Tis said that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow
That in the sun Did rivulets run,
And all around rare flowers did blow
The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.

So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant flowers of song!

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither flyMere
puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

The City In The Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters he.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silentlyGleams
up the pinnacles far and freeUp
domes- up spires- up kingly hallsUp
fanes- up Babylon-like wallsUp
shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowersUp
many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.


There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eyeNot
the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glassNo
swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier seaNo
heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.


But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tideAs
if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glowThe
hours are breathing faint and low



And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.

The Bells - A Collaboration

The bells! — ah, the bells!
The little silver bells!
How fairy-like a melody there floats
From their throats. —
From their merry little throats —
From the silver, tinkling throats
Of the bells, bells, bells —
Of the bells!


The bells! — ah, the bells!
The heavy iron bells!
How horrible a monody there floats
From their throats —
From their deep-toned throats —
From their melancholy throats!
How I shudder at the notes
Of the bells, bells, bells —
Of the bells!

Spirits Of The Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood


In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.


Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.


The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

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 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 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.
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 againO
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 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
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.

It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rushThe
torrent of the chilly air

Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires- with the captive's prayerThe
hum of suitors- 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 every hope and thought
Were incense- then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and uprightPure-
as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?


We grew in age- and love- together,
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather


And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
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,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tearsThere
was no need to speak the rest


No need to quiet any fears
Of her- who ask'd no reason why,
But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new toneI
had no being- but in thee:


The world, and all it did contain
In the earth- the air- the seaIts
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 murmur'd at such lowly lotBut,
just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam

Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute- the hour- the day- oppress
My mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers

Of rock and forest, on the hills



The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically- in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelesslyA
mingled feeling with my ownThe
flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,

And donn'd a visionary crownYet
it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me


But that, among the rabble- men,

Lion ambition is chained downAnd
crouches to a keeper's handNot
so in deserts where the grandThe
wild- the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand

Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling- her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throneAnd
who her sovereign? Timour- he

Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birthFarewell!
for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly



And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon- the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest oneFor
all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flownLet
life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty- which is all.


I reach'd my home- my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,

And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known


O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart- a deeper woe.


Father, I firmly do believeI
know- for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,

Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity


I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human pathElse
how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun- no tiniest fly



The lightning of his eagle eyeHow
was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?

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 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 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.
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 againO
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 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
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.

It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rushThe
torrent of the chilly air

Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires- with the captive's prayerThe
hum of suitors- 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 every hope and thought
Were incense- then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and uprightPure-
as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?


We grew in age- and love- together,
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather


And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
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,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tearsThere
was no need to speak the rest


No need to quiet any fears
Of her- who ask'd no reason why,
But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new toneI
had no being- but in thee:


The world, and all it did contain
In the earth- the air- the seaIts
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 murmur'd at such lowly lotBut,
just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam

Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute- the hour- the day- oppress
My mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers

Of rock and forest, on the hills



The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically- in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelesslyA
mingled feeling with my ownThe
flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,

And donn'd a visionary crownYet
it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me


But that, among the rabble- men,

Lion ambition is chained downAnd
crouches to a keeper's handNot
so in deserts where the grandThe
wild- the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand

Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling- her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throneAnd
who her sovereign? Timour- he

Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birthFarewell!
for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly



And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon- the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest oneFor
all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flownLet
life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty- which is all.


I reach'd my home- my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,

And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known


O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart- a deeper woe.


Father, I firmly do believeI
know- for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,

Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity


I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human pathElse
how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun- no tiniest fly



The lightning of his eagle eyeHow
was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?

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 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 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.
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 againO
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 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
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.

It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rushThe
torrent of the chilly air

Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires- with the captive's prayerThe
hum of suitors- 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 every hope and thought
Were incense- then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and uprightPure-
as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?


We grew in age- and love- together,
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather


And when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
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,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tearsThere
was no need to speak the rest


No need to quiet any fears
Of her- who ask'd no reason why,
But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new toneI
had no being- but in thee:


The world, and all it did contain
In the earth- the air- the seaIts
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 murmur'd at such lowly lotBut,
just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam

Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute- the hour- the day- oppress
My mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers

Of rock and forest, on the hills



The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically- in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelesslyA
mingled feeling with my ownThe
flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,

And donn'd a visionary crownYet
it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me


But that, among the rabble- men,

Lion ambition is chained downAnd
crouches to a keeper's handNot
so in deserts where the grandThe
wild- the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand

Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling- her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throneAnd
who her sovereign? Timour- he

Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birthFarewell!
for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly



And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon- the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest oneFor
all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flownLet
life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty- which is all.


I reach'd my home- my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,

And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known


O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart- a deeper woe.


Father, I firmly do believeI
know- for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,

Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity


I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human pathElse
how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun- no tiniest fly



The lightning of his eagle eyeHow
was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?

Sonnet- To Science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,

Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood


To seek a shelter in some happier star?

Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

Song


I saw thee on thy bridal dayWhen
a burning blush came o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:

And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.


That blush, perhaps, was maiden shameAs
such it well may passThough
its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!

Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay;
The world all love before thee.

For Annie

Thank Heaven! the crisisThe
danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at lastAnd
the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full lengthBut
no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me deadMight
start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:- ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness- the nauseaThe
pitiless painHave
ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brainWith
the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated- the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:I
have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:


Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under groundFrom
a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never


Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bedAnd,
to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its rosesIts
old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansiesA
rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansiesWith
rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of AnnieDrowned
in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breastDeeply
to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harmTo
the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.


And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me deadAnd
I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)


That you fancy me deadThat
you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with AnnieIt
glows with the light

Of the love of my AnnieWith
the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius

Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.


Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home -
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.


In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodious, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny's blood.


Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame
Embalmed in their echoing songs!

Dreams


Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!

My spirit not awakening, till the beam

Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.

Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,

'Twere better than the cold reality

Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,

And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,

A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

But should it be- that dream eternally

Continuing- as dreams have been to me

In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,

'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.

For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright

I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light

And loveliness,- have left my very heart

In climes of my imagining, apart

From mine own home, with beings that have been

Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?

'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour

From my remembrance shall not pass- some power

Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind

Came o'er me in the night, and left behind

Its image on my spirit- or the moon

Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon

Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was

That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

Dreams


Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!

My spirit not awakening, till the beam

Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.

Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,

'Twere better than the cold reality

Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,

And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,

A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

But should it be- that dream eternally

Continuing- as dreams have been to me

In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,

'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.

For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright

I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light

And loveliness,- have left my very heart

In climes of my imagining, apart

From mine own home, with beings that have been

Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?

'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour

From my remembrance shall not pass- some power

Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind

Came o'er me in the night, and left behind

Its image on my spirit- or the moon

Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon

Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was

That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

Dreams


Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!

My spirit not awakening, till the beam

Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.

Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,

'Twere better than the cold reality

Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,

And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,

A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

But should it be- that dream eternally

Continuing- as dreams have been to me

In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,

'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.

For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright

I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light

And loveliness,- have left my very heart

In climes of my imagining, apart

From mine own home, with beings that have been

Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?

'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour

From my remembrance shall not pass- some power

Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind

Came o'er me in the night, and left behind

Its image on my spirit- or the moon

Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon

Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was

That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

Elizabeth


Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the schoolCalled
- I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

Bridal Ballad

The ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satin and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.

And my lord he loves me well;

But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swellFor
the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,

And who is happy now.

But he spoke to re-assure me,

And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o'er me,
And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
"Oh, I am happy now!"

And thus the words were spoken,

And this the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Here is a ring, as token

That I am happy now!

Would God I could awaken!

For I dream I know not how!

And my soul is sorely shaken

Lest an evil step be taken,


Lest the dead who is forsaken

May not be happy now.

Alone


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Alone


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.