POEMS.

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 inI 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!
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 Cæsar - 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,