The minstrel-breeze which struck by hours Its tender instrument of flowers— The moon that held her march alone At midnight ’round th’ Eternal Throne— The sullen thunder whose red eyes Flashed angrily within our skies— All! all to me were but the chain Along whose wond’rous links there came Unceasingly to head and brain Love’s own electric flame. Yes! when the Harp of Nature roll’d Its midnight hymn from chords of gold, And awful silence seemed to own, Throughout the world, its wizard tone, I’ve stood and wildly wished to float Into that music’s liquid strain— Oh! heavenly as its sweetest note— Nor ever walk the earth again. What change is this? Hate, fiercest Hate, Where once these angel-yearnings burned Like torches set by Heaven’s bright gate, Hath all to deadly poison turned. The Best can only feel the fire, But once, which flashes from the clime Where love sits beaming o’er the lyre That strikes the mystic march of Time. The tree of most luxuriant stem Whose every leaflet glows a gem Beneath its oriental sky, When once its emerald diadem Hath felt the simoon sweeping by. Can never more in southern bowers Renew its fragrant idol-flowers. So with the great in soul—whose bloom Of Heart hath felt the thunder-doom Which mankind, trusted, may bestow On him who little dreamed the blow— Theirs be the joy!—But ours the woe! I was my father’s only child— (The cherished scion of a race Whose monuments of fame are piled On glory’s mighty dwelling-place) I need not tell how oft he smiled When counting o’er to me each deed, In gallant barque, on champing steed, Of ancestors in battle wild; Nor how he gazed upon my face And there by hours would fondly trace The lines which as they manlier grew, He deemed the signs of Glory, too. I saw at last the sable pall Gloom in our lordly castle’s hall, And heard the Friar’s burial rite Keeping the watches of the night. Another noble form was laid Where Lorro’s dead together meet— And I, in ducal robes arrayed, Took Lorro’s castled seat. I need not tell how passed the days, I need not tell of pleasure’s ways— Where bright-eyed mirth flung dewy flowers Beneath the silver-feet of hours, While Time himself o’er music’s strings Lean’d panting on his weary wings. At last there came unto our gate One looking worn and desolate, Who asked compassion for his fate. He said he was an orphan lad; In sooth my lonely heart was glad— For I was weary of my state Where only courtiers crowded round; I wished some fair and gentle mate, And such I fondly hoped I found.