Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod _She_ grants to us, as granted by her God— But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl’d Never his fairy wing o’er fairer world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea— But when its glory swell’d upon the sky, As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye, * Pennon—for pinion.—_Milton_. We paus’d before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!” Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. 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 divine— I 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 again— O! craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! Th’ 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 wingèd 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