Page:The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (Volume II).djvu/124

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!