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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!

      *****

       IV.

      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.—

       V.

      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

       VI.

      '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?

       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 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.

       VIII.

      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.

       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—

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