TAMERLANE.
Ring, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness—a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The lever'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.
My own voice, silly child!—was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice.
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!
