Tamerlane - Early Version

I.     I have sent for thee, holy friar;1     But twas not with the drunken hope,     Which is but agony of desire     To shun the fate, with which to cope     Is more than crime may dare to dream,     That I have calld thee at this hour:     Such father is not my theme     Nor am I mad, to deem that power     Of earth may shrive me of the sin     Unearthly pride hath revelld in     I would not call thee fool, old man,     But hope is not a gift of thine;     If I can hope (O God! I can)     It falls from an eternal shrine. II.     The gay wall of this gaudy tower     Grows dim around me, death is near.     I had not thought, until this hour     When passing from the earth, that ear     Of any, were it not the shade     Of one whom in life I made     All mystery but a simple name,     Might know the secret of a spirit     Bowd down in sorrow, and in shame.     Shame saidst thou?     Aye I did inherit     That hatred portion, with the fame,     The worldly glory, which has shown     A demon-light around my throne,     Scorching my seard heart with a pain     Not Hell shall make me fear again. III.     I have not always been as now     The feverd diadem on my brow     I claimd and won usurpingly     Aye, the same heritage hath givn     Rome to the Csar, this to me;     The heirdom of a kingly mind,     And a proud spirit, which hath strivn     Triumphantly with human kind.     In mountain air I first drew life;     The mists of the Taglay have shed 2     Nightly their dews on my young head;     And my brain drank their venom then,     When after day of perilous strife     With chamois, I would seize his den     And slumber, in my pride of power,     The infant monarch of the hour,     For, with the mountain dew by night,     My soul imbibd unhallowd feeling;     And I would feel its essence stealing     In dreams upon me, while the light     Flashing from cloud that hoverd oer,     Would seem to my half closing eye     The pageantry of monarchy!     And the deep thunders echoing roar     Came hurriedly upon me, telling     Of war, and tumult, where my voice     My own voice, silly child! was swelling     (O how would my wild heart rejoice     And leap within me at the cry)     The battle-cry of victory!      IV.     The rain came down upon my head     But barely shelterd, and the wind     Passd quickly oer me, but my mind     Was madning, for twas man that shed     Laurels upon me, and the rush,     The torrent of the chilly air     Gurgled in my pleasd ear the crash     Of empires, with the captives prayer,     The hum of suitors, the mixd tone     Of flattry round a sovreigns throne.     The storm had ceasd, and I awoke,     Its spirit cradled me to sleep,     And as it passd me by, there broke     Strange light upon me, tho it were     My soul in mystery to sleep:     For I was not as I had been;     The child of Nature, without care,     Or thought, save of the passing scene. V.     My passions, from that hapless hour,     Usurpd a tyranny, which men     Have deemd, since I have reachd to power     My innate nature, be it so:     But, father, there livd one who, then,     Then, in my boyhood, when their fire     Burnd with a still intenser glow;     (For passion must with youth expire)     Evn then, who deemd this iron heart     In womans weakness had a part.     I have no words, alas! to tell     The lovliness of loving well!     Nor would I dare attempt to trace     The breathing beauty of a face,     Which evn to my impassiond mind,     Leaves not its memory behind.     In spring of life have ye neer dwelt     Some object of delight upon,     With steadfast eye, till ye have felt     The earth reel, and the vision gone?     And I have held to memrys eye     One object, and but one, until     Its very form hath passd me by,     But left its influence with me still. VI.     Tis not to thee that I should name,     Thou canst not, wouldst not dare to think     The magic empire of a flame     Which evn upon this perilous brink     Hath fixd my soul, tho unforgivn     By what it lost for passion, Heavn.     I lovd, and O, how tenderly!     Yes! she worthy of all love!     Such as in infancy was mine     Tho then its passion could not be:     Twas such as angel minds above     Might envy, her young heart the shrine     On which my evry hope and thought     Were incense, then a goodly gift,     For they were childish, without sin,     Pure as her young examples taught;     Why did I leave it and adrift,     Trust to the fickle star within? VII.     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 smild     And she would mark the opning skies,     I saw no Heavn, but in her eyes,     Evn childhood knows the human heart;     For when, in sunshine and in smiles,     From all our little cares apart,     Laughing at her half silly wiles,     Id throw me on her throbbing breast,     And pour my spirit out in tears,     Shed look up in my wilderd eye,     There was no need to speak the rest,     No need to quiet her kind fears,     She did not ask the reason why.     The hallowd memry of those years     Comes oer me in these lonely hours,     And, with sweet lovliness, appears     As perfume of strange summer flowrs;     Of flowrs which we have known before     In infancy, which seen, recall     To mind, not flowrs alone, but more     Our earthly life, and love, and all. VIII.     Yes! she was worthy of all love!     Evn such as from th accursed time     My spirit with the tempest strove,     When on the mountain peak alone,     Ambition lent it a new tone,     And bade it first to dream of crime,     My phrenzy to her bosom taught:     We still were young: no purer thought     Dwell in a seraphs breast than thine; 3     For passionate love is still divine:     I lovd her as an angel might     With ray of the all living light     Which blazes upon Edis shrine. 4     It is not surely sin to name,     With such as mine, that mystic flame,     I had no being but in thee!     The world with all its train of bright     And happy beauty (for to me     All was an undefind delight)     The world, its joy, its share of pain     Which I felt not, its bodied forms     Of varied being, which contain     The bodiless spirits of the storms,     The sunshine, and the calm, the ideal     And fleeting vanities of dreams,     Fearfully beautiful! the real     Nothings of mid-day waking life,     Of an enchanted life, which seems,     Now as I look back, the strife     Of some ill demon, with a power     Which left me in an evil hour,     All that I felt, or saw, or thought,     Crowding, confused became     (With thine unearthly beauty fraught)     Thou, and the nothing of a name. IX.     The passionate spirit which hath known,     And deeply felt the silent tone     Of its own self supremacy,     (I speak thus openly to thee,     Twere folly now to veil a thought     With which this aching, breast is fraught)     The soul which feels its innate right,     The mystic empire and high power     Givn by the energetic might     Of Genius, at its natal hour;     Which knows (believe me at this time,     When falsehood were a ten-fold crime,     There is a power in the high spirit     To know the fate it will inherit)     The soul, which knows such power, will still     Find Pride the ruler of its will.     Yes! I was proud, and ye who know     The magic of that meaning word,     So oft perverted, will bestow     Your scorn, perhaps, when ye have heard     That the proud spirit had been broken,     The proud heart burst in agony     At one upbraiding word or token     Of her that hearts idolatry,     I was ambitious, have ye known     Its fiery passion? ye have not,     A cottager, I markd a throne     Of half the world, as all my own,     And murmurd at such lowly lot!     But it had passd me as a dream     Which, of light step, flies with the dew,     That kindling thought, did not the beam     Of Beauty, which did guide it through     The livelong summer day, oppress     My mind with double loveliness      X.     We walkd together on the crown     Of a high mountain, which lookd down     Afar from its proud natural towers     Of rock and forest, on the hills,     The dwindled hills, whence amid bowers     Her own fair hand had reard around,     Gushd shoutingly a thousand rills,     Which as it were, in fairy bound     Embracd two hamlets, those our own,     Peacefully happy, yet alone,     .         .         .         .         .     I spoke to her of power and pride,     But mystically, in such guise,     That she might deem it naught beside     The moments converse, in her eyes     I read (perhaps too carelessly)     A mingled feeling with my own;     The flush on her bright cheek, to me,     Seemd to become a queenly throne     Too well, that I should let it be     A light in the dark wild, alone. XI.     There, in that hour, a thought came oer     My mind, it had not known before,     To leave her while we both were young,     To follow my high fate among     The strife of nations, and redeem     The idle words, which, as a dream     Now sounded to her heedless ear,     I held no doubt, I knew no fear     Of peril in my wild career;     To gain an empire, and throw down     As nuptial dowry, a queens crown,     The only feeling which possest,     With her own image, my fond breast,     Who, that had known the secret thought     Of a young peasants bosom then,     Had deemd him, in compassion, aught     But one, whom phantasy had led     Astray from reason, Among men     Ambition is chaind down, nor fed     (As in the desert, where the grand,     The wild, the beautiful, conspire     With their own breath to fan its fire)     With thoughts such feeling can command;     Uncheckd by sarcasm, and scorn     Of those, who hardly will conceive     That any should become great, born 5     In their own sphere, will not believe     That they shall stoop in life to one     Whom daily they are wont to see     Familiarly, whom Fortunes sun     Hath neer shone dazzlingly upon     Lowly, and of their own degree, XII.     I picturd to my fancys eye     Her silent, deep astonishment,     When, a few fleeting years gone by,     (For short the time my high hope lent     To its most desperate intent,)     She might recall in him, whom Fame     Had gilded with a conquerers name,     (With glory, such as might inspire     Perforce, a passing thought of one,     Whom she had deemd in his own fire     Witherd and blasted; who had gone     A traitor, violate of the truth     So plighted in his early youth,)     Her own Alexis, who should plight 6     The love he plighted then, again,     And raise his infancys delight,     The bride and queen of Tamerlane, XIII.     One noon of a bright summers day     I passd from out the matted bowr     Where in a deep, still slumber lay     My Ada. In that peaceful hour,     A silent gaze was my farewell.     I had no other solace, then     Tawake her, and a falsehood tell     Of a feignd journey, were again     To trust the weakness of my heart     To her soft thrilling voice: To part     Thus, haply, while in sleep she dreamd     Of long delight, nor yet had deemd     Awake, that I had held a thought     Of parting, were with madness fraught;     I knew not womans heart, alas!     Tho lovd, and loving, let it pass. XIV.     I went from out the matted bowr,     And hurried madly on my way:     And felt, with evry flying hour,     That bore me from my home, more gay;     There is of earth an agony     Which, ideal, still may be     The worst ill of mortality,     Tis bliss, in its own reality,     Too real, to his breast who lives     Not within himself but gives     A portion of his willing soul     To God, and to the great whole,     To him, whose loving spirit will dwell     With Nature, in her wild paths; tell     Of her wondrous ways, and telling bless     Her overpowring loveliness!     A more than agony to him     Whose failing sight will grow dim     With its own living gaze upon     That loveliness around: the sun,     The blue sky, the misty light     Of the pale cloud therein, whose hue     Is grace to its heavnly bed of blue;     Dim! tho looking on all bright!     O God! when the thoughts that may not pass     Will burst upon him, and alas!     For the flight on Earth to Fancy givn,     There are no words, unless of Heavn. XV.     Look round thee now on Samarcand, 7     Is she not queen of earth? her pride     Above all cities? in her hand     Their destinies? with all beside     Of glory, which the world hath known?     Stands she not proudly and alone?     And who her sovreign? Timur he 8     Whom th astonishd earth hath seen,     With victory, on victory,     Redoubling age! and more, I ween,     The Zinghis yet re-echoing fame. 9     And now what has he? what! a name.     The sound of revelry by night     Comes oer me, with the mingled voice     Of many with a breast as light,     As if twere not the dying hour     Of one, in whom they did rejoice,     As in a leader, haply, Power     Its venom secretly imparts;     Nothing have I with human hearts. XVI.     When Fortune markd me for her own,     And my proud hopes had reachd a throne     (It boots me not, good friar, to tell     A tale the world but knows too well,     How by what hidden deeds of might,     I clamberd to the tottering height,)     I still was young; and well I ween     My spirit what it eer had been.     My eyes were still on pomp and power,     My wilderd heart was far away,     In vallies of the wild Taglay,     In mine own Adas matted bowr.     I dwelt not long in Samarcand     Ere, in a peasants lowly guise,     I sought my long-abandond land,     By sunset did its mountains rise     In dusky grandeur to my eyes:     But as I wanderd on the way     My heart sunk with the suns ray.     To him, who still would gaze upon     The glory of the summer sun,     There comes, when that sun will from him part,     A sullen hopelessness of heart.     That soul will hate the evning mist     So often lovely, and will lisp     To the sound of the coming darkness (known     To those whose spirits harkn) as one 10     Who in a dream of night would fly     But cannot from a danger nigh.     What though the moon, the silvery moon     Shine on his path, in her high noon;     Her smile is chilly, and her beam     In that time of dreariness will seem     As the portrait of one after death;     A likeness taken when the breath     Of young life, and the fire o the eye     Had lately been but had passd by.     Tis thus when the lovely summer sun     Of our boyhood, his course hath run:     For all we live to know, is known;     And all we seek to keep, hath flown;     With the noon-day beauty, which is all.     Let life, then, as the day-flowr, fall,     The trancient, passionate day-flowr, 11     Withering at the evning hour. XVII.     I reachd my home, my home no more,     For all was flown that made it so,     I passd from out its mossy door,     In vacant idleness of woe.     There met me on its threshold stone     A mountain hunter, I had known     In childhood but he knew me not.     Something he spoke of the old cot:     It had seen better days, he said;     There rose a fountain once, and there     Full many a fair flowr raisd its head:     But she who reard them was long dead,     And in such follies had no part,     What was there left me now? despair,     A kingdom for a broken heart.