from eye of God upon that star:
          Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—
          Sweet was that error—ev’n with _us_ the breath
          Of science dims the mirror of our joy—
          To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy—
          For what (to them) availeth it to know
          That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe? Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife
          With the last ecstacy of satiate life—
          Beyond that death no immortality—
          But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”—
          And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—
          *Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell! * With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
     Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain
     that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be
     characteristic of heavenly enjoyment. Un no rompido sueno—
            Un dia puro—allegre—libre
            Quiera—
            Libre de amor—de zelo—
            De odio—de esperanza—de rezelo.—_Luis Ponce de Leon_. Sorrow is not excluded from “Al Aaraaf,” but it is that
     sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and
     which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The
     passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit
     attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures—
     the price of which, to those souls who make choice of “Al
     Aaraaf” as their residence after life, is final death and
     annihilation. What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
          Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn? But two:  they fell:  for Heaven no grace imparts
          To those who hear not for their beating hearts. A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover—
          O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
          Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known? *Unguided Love hath fallen—‘mid “tears of perfect moan.”
          He was a goodly spirit—he who fell:
          A wanderer by mossy-mantled well—
          A gazer on the lights that shine above—
          A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
          What wonder? For each star is eye-like there,
          And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair—
          And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were holy
          To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. The night had found (to him a night of woe)
          Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo—
          Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
          And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent
          With eagle gaze along the firmament:
          Now turn’d it upon her—but ever then
          It trembled to the orb of EARTH again. “Iante, dearest, see! how dim that ray! How lovely ’tis to look so far away! * There be tears of perfect moan
         Wept for thee in Helicon.—_Milton._
          She seem’d not thus upon that autumn eve
          I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourn’d to leave. That eve—that eve—I should remember well—
          The sun-ray dropp’d, in Lemnos, with a spell
          On th’Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
          Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall—
          And on my eye-lids—O the heavy light! How drowsily it weigh’d them into night! On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
          With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
          But O that light!—I slumber’d—Death, the while,
          Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle
          So softly that no single silken hair
          Awoke that slept—or knew that it was there. The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon
          *Was a proud temple call’d the Parthenon—
          More beauty clung around her column’d wall
          **Than ev’n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
          And when old Time my wing did disenthral
          Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower,
          And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung
          One half the garden of her globe was flung
          Unrolling as a chart unto my view—
          Tenantless cities of the desert too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
          And half I wish’d to be again of men.”
          “My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee—
    * It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens. ** Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
       Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.—_Marlowe._
           And greener fields than in yon world above,
           And women’s loveliness—and passionate love.”
           “But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
           *Fail’d, as my pennon’d spirit leapt aloft,
           Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world
           I left so late was into chaos hurl’d—
           Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
           And roll’d, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
           And fell—not swiftly as I rose before,
           But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’
           Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
           For nearest of all stars was thine to ours—
           Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
           A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.”
           “We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us
           Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss:
           We came, my love; around, above, below,
           Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
           Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
           _She_ grants to us, as granted by her God—
           But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl’d
           Never his fairy wing o’er fairer world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
           Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
           When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
           Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea—
           But when its glory swell’d upon the sky,
           As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye,
     * Pennon—for pinion.—_Milton_. We paus’d before the heritage of men,
           And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!”
           Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
           The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell:  for Heaven to them no hope imparts
           Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. 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 in—
         I 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!