O! were there an island,
    Tho’ ever so wild,
  Where woman might smile, and
    No man be beguil’d, etc. ]

[Footnote 26:  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.]

[Footnote 27: 

  There be tears of perfect moan
  Wept for thee in Helicon.

’Milton’.]

[Footnote 28:  It was entire in 1687—­the most elevated spot in Athens.]

[Footnote 29: 

  Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
  Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.

‘Marlowe.’]

[Footnote 30:  Pennon, for pinion.—­’Milton’.]

* * * * *

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 revelled 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—­O 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
  Bowed from its wild pride into shame
  O yearning heart!  I did inherit
  Thy withering portion with the fame,
  The searing glory which hath shone
  Amid the Jewels of my throne,
  Halo of Hell! and with a pain
  Not Hell shall make me fear again—­
  O craving heart, for the lost flowers
  And sunshine of my summer hours! 
  The undying voice of that dead time,
  With its interminable chime,
  Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
  Upon thy emptiness—­a knell.

  I have not always been as now: 
  The fevered diadem on my brow
  I claimed and won usurpingly—­
  Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
  Rome to the Caesar—­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.