Drew forth fresh claims of power, and land, and gold; For, in those days, the illusion of the East Had not yet vanished; like the peasant boy Who deems that London streets are paved with gold, Men, old in all the arts of peace and war, Dreamed that a land whose poverty they saw, Might harbour still the treasures of romance. At last, grown desperate, he stood at bay, And, hoping that the neighbouring potentates, (Whose crooked policy still left in doubt Which side they meant to favour) when they saw Their countryman but once victorious, Would join to drive the usurper to the Sea, Resolved to stand the hazard of a fight. V. The season was the later Indian rains; The sorrowing sky, bereaved of her Lord, Was dark and full of weeping, and the heart Of Michael, though a bold one, had been trained In its cold native Island, to a love Of the bright beams of Summer; and the Sun Even when it dealt destruction, gave him joy: And now he drooped, and felt an inward dread, Such as the priests of old Jerusalem Felt, when they heard the sighing gust that swept, From the dark shrine to the gate Beautiful, Upon the fatal night before the storm, When the Shechinah left them audibly. Long mused he, while the chill damp night came on, And starting, after dark, trooped with sad thoughts, Felt fear and wonder that he was alone. Around his tent he heard the mighty waters Plash in the wet, and hiss upon the dry; Within, the congregated insect life Monotonously hummed; he made two turns, Then, calling for his torch, took an old book, Brass-bound and weather wasted, the last gift Of a dear mother, given to him with sobs, And murmured blessings, when he left his home. He opened it, and face to face arose The dead old years he thought to have escaped, All chronicled in letters; there he saw Answers to some of his, containing doubts Long since become negations, some again Encouraging resolves of his, long broke, And, as he thought, forgotten; not a leaf But marked some downward step: Oh, in our life There are no hours so full of speechless woe, As those in which we read, through misty eyes, Letters from those who loved us once; of whom Some have long ceased to love at all; the hand That traced the fond warm records still and cold; The spirit that turned to ours, long lost to all That moves and mourns and sins upon the earth; And some, oh! sadder! that, by us estranged, Still live, still love, but live for us no more. He sate and gazed, till through the tent was heard That sound the coldest cannot hear unmoved,