Tamerlane

I have sent for thee, holy friar; 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 call'd 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 revelled 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.

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 Bow'd down in sorrow, and in shame.— Shame, said'st thou?

Ay, I did inherit That hated portion, with the fame, The worldly glory, which has shown A demon-light around my throne, Scorching my sear'd heart with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again.

I have not always been as now— The fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd and won usurpingly— Ay—the same heritage hath given Rome to the Cæsar—this to me; The heirdom of a kingly mind— And a proud spirit, which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind.

In mountain air I first drew life; The mists of the Taglay have shed 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 imbibed unhallow'd feeling; And I would feel its essence stealing In dreams upon me—while the light Flashing from cloud that hover'd o'er, Would seem to my half closing eye The pageantry of monarchy! And the deep thunder's 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!

The rain came down upon my head But barely shelter'd—and the wind Pass'd quickly o'er me—but my mind Was maddening—for 'twas man that shed Laurels upon me—and the rush, The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled in my pleased ear the crush Of empires, with the captive's prayer, The hum of suitors, the mix'd tone Of flattery round a sovereign's throne.

The storm had ceased—and I awoke— Its spirit cradled me to sleep, And as it pass'd me by, there broke Strange light upon me, tho' it were My soul in mystery to steep: For I was not as I had been; The child of Nature, without care, Or thought, save of the passing scene.—

My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp'd a tyranny, which men Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, My innate nature—be it so: But, father, there lived one who, then— Then, in my boyhood, when their fire Burn'd with a still intenser glow; (For passion must with youth expire) Even then, who deem'd this iron heart In woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words, alas! to tell The loveliness of loving well! Nor would I dare attempt to trace The breathing beauty of a face, Which even to my impassion'd mind, Leaves not its memory behind. In spring of life have ye ne'er 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 memory's eye One object—and but one—until Its very form hath pass'd me by, But left its influence with me still

'Tis not to thee that I should name— Thou canst not—wouldst not dare to think The magic empire of a flame Which even upon this perilous brink Hath fix'd my soul, tho' unforgiven, By what it lost for passion—Heaven. I loved—and O, how tenderly! Yes! she [was] 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 every hope and thought Were incense—then a goodly gift— For they were childish, without sin, Pure as her young example taught; Why did I leave it and adrift, Trust to the fickle star within?

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 smiled And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven but in her eyes— Even childhood knows the human heart; For when, in sunshine and in smiles, From all our little cares apart, Laughing at her half silly wiles, I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears, She'd look up in my wilder'd eye— There was no need to speak the rest— No need to quiet her kind fears— She did not ask the reason why.

The hallow'd memory of those years Comes o'er me in these lonely hours, And, with sweet loveliness, appears As perfume of strange summer flowers; Of flowers which we have known before In infancy, which seen, recall To mind—not flowers alone—but more, Our earthly life, and love—and all.

Yes! she was worthy of all love! Even such as from the 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 frenzy to her bosom taught: We still were young: no purer thought Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine; For passionate love is still divine: I loved her as an angel might With ray of the all living light Which blazes upon Edis' shrine. 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 undefined 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.

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 Given by the energetic might Of Genius, at its natal hour; Which knows (believe me at this time, When falsehood were a tenfold 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 heart's idolatry— I was ambitious—have ye known Its fiery passion?—ye have not— A cottager, I mark'd a throne Of half the world, as all my own, And murmur'd at such lowly lot! But it had pass'd 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—

We walk'd together on the crown Of a high mountain, which look'd 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 rear'd around, Gush'd shoutingly a thousand rills, Which as it were, in fairy bound Embraced 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 nought beside The moment's converse; in her eyes I read (perhaps too carelessly) A mingled feeling with my own; The flush on her bright cheek, to me, Seem'd to become a queenly throne Too well, that I should let it be A light in the dark wild, alone.

There—in that hour—a thought came o'er 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 queen's crown, The only feeling which possest, With her own image, my fond breast— Who, that had known the secret thought Of a young peasant's bosom then, Had deem'd him, in compassion, aught But one, whom fantasy had led Astray from reason—Among men Ambition is chain'd 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; Uncheck'd by sarcasm, and scorn Of those, who hardly will conceive That any should become "great," born In their own sphere—will not believe That they shall stoop in life to one Whom daily they are wont to see Familiarly—whom Fortune's sun Hath ne'er shone dazzlingly upon, Lowly—and of their own degree—

I pictured to my fancy's 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 conqueror's name, (With glory—such as might inspire Perforce, a passing thought of one, Whom she had deemed in his own fire Withered and blasted; who had gone A traitor, violate of the truth So plighted in his early youth,) Her own Alexis, who should plight The love he plighted then—again. And raise his infancy's delight. The bride and queen of Tamerlane.—

One noon of a bright summer's day I pass'd from out the matted bower 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 To awake her, and a falsehood tell Of a feign'd journey, were again To trust the weakness of my heart To her soft thrilling voice: To part Thus, haply, while in sleep she dream'd Of long delight, nor yet had deem'd Awake, that I had held a thought Of parting, were with madness fraught; I knew not woman's heart, alas! Tho' loved, and loving—let it pass.—

I went from out the matted bower, And hurried madly on my way: And felt, with every 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 overpowering 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 heavenly 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 given, There are no words—unless of Heaven.

Look round thee now on Samarcand, 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 sovereign? Timur, he Whom the astonish'd earth hath seen, With victory, on victory, Redoubling age! and more, I ween, The Zinghis' yet re-echoing fame. And now what has he? what! a name. The sound of revelry by night Comes o'er 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.

When Fortune mark'd me for her own, And my proud hopes had reach'd 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 clamber'd to the tottering height,) I still was young; and well I ween My spirit what it e'er had been. My eyes were still on pomp and power, My wilder'd heart was far away In valleys of the wild Taglay, In mine own Ada's matted bower. I dwelt not long in Samarcand Ere, in a peasant's lowly guise, I sought my long-abandon'd land; By sunset did its mountains rise In dusky grandeur to my eyes: But as I wander'd on the way My heart sunk with the sun's 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 evening mist So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hearken) as one 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 pass'd 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-flower, fall— The transient, passionate day-flower, Withering at the evening hour.

I reach'd my home—my home no more— For all was flown that made it so— I pass'd 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 flower raised its head: But she who rear'd them was long dead, And in such follies had no part, What was there left me now? despair— A kingdom for a broken—heart.

Edgar Allan Poe