The rain came down upon my head Unsheltered—and the heavy wind Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush— The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires—with the captive’s prayer— The hum of suitors—and the tone Of flattery ’round a sovereign’s throne.
My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurped a tyranny which men Have deemed since I have reached to power, My innate nature—be it so: But, father, there lived one who, then, Then—in my boyhood—when their fire Burned with a still intenser glow (For passion must, with youth, expire) E’en then who knew 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 now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are ⸻ shadows on th’ unstable wind: Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters—with their meaning—melt To fantasies—with none.
O, she was worthy of all love! Love as in infancy was mine— ’Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my ev’ry hope and thought Were incense—then a goodly gift, For they were childish and upright— Pure—as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light?
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. Young Love’s first lesson is—the heart: For ’mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,