And the lips ashen with the stifled pain,
And the proud form more peerless in its pride,
Till his brain swam with dizziness; yet turned
And followed his dark monitor, Ambition. * * *
A half-score years had fled. Within a room,
Where wealth and elegance combined with art
To make a home for genius, as are set
Rich gems in finest gold, reclined a man,
The master of the place. The silken lounge
Was placed beside a window, through which stole,
Waving the parted curtains, the sweet breath
Of the young spring-time; and it stirred his hair,
Dallying with the curls, until it brought
The memory of a time when a fair hand
Had parted those dark locks upon his brow,
And twined the jeweled fingers with their shreds,
While he pored over the time-honored tome
That fed his dreams of glory. And there came
Over his heart a yearning to behold
The idol of his youth, to which was given
All his heart knew of love. That one last scene,
Fraught with the destiny of both, came back
With strange distinctness; and a chilling dread
Haunted him like a specter.
Fame was won,
And wealth and honor; all he hoped and wished;
Yet he looked back upon a sea of strife;
And forward, a wide desert met his view;
And what at best was life? When all was won,
Then the desire was dead; and loathingly
He turned him from the spectacle that lay
Within the gilded temple he had sought.
Beneath the splendors of a southern sky,
A palace reared its walls. Stately and fair,
It rose amid a grove of flowering trees,
