"But while we speak my brother's shadow creeps34
Over the life-blood that it freezes fast;
Haste, while the king that shall discrown me sleeps,
Nor lose the Present—lo, how dead the Past!
Accept the trials, Prince beloved by Heaven,
To the deep heart—(that nobler reason,) given.
"Thou hast rejected in the Cuthites' halls35
The fruits that flush Ambition's dazzling tree,
The Conqueror's lust of blood-stain'd coronals;—
Again thine ordeal in thy judgment be!
Nor here shall empire need the arm of crime—
But Fate achieve the lot, thou ask'st from Time.
"Behold the threefold Future at thy choice,36
Choose right, and win from Fame the master-spell."
Then the concealing veils, as ceased the voice,
From the three arches with a clangor fell,
And clear as scenes with Thespian wonders rife
Gave to his view the Lemur-shapes of life.
Lo the fair stream amidst that pleasant vale,37
Wherein his youth held careless holiday;
The stream is blithe with many a silken sail,
The vale with many a proud pavilion gay,
And in the centre of the rosy ring,
Reclines the Phantom of himself—the King.
All, all the same as when his golden prime38
Lay in the lap of Life's soft Arcady;
When the light love beheld no foe but Time,
When but from Pleasure heaved the prophet sigh,
And Luxury's prayer was as "a Summer day,
'Mid blooms and sweets to wear the hours away."
"Behold," the Genius said, "is that thy choice39
As once it was?" "Nay, I have wept since then,"
Answer'd the mortal with a mournful voice,
"When the dews fall, the stars arise for men!"
So turn'd he to the second arch to see
The imperial peace of tranquil majesty;—
The kingly throne, himself the dazzling king;40
Bright arms, and jewell'd vests, and purple stoles;
While silver winds, from many a music-string,
Rippled the wave of glittering banderolls:
From mitred priests and ermined barons, clear
Came the loud praise which monarchs love to hear!
"Doth this content thee?" "Ay," the Prince replied,41
And tower'd erect, with empire on his brow;
"Ay, here at once a Monarch may decide,
Be but the substance worthy of the show!
Show me the men whose toil the pomp creates,
Pomp is the robe,—Content the soul, of States!"
Slow fades the pageant, and the Phantom stage42
As slowly fill'd with squalid, ghastly forms;
Here, over fireless hearths cower'd shivering Age
And blew with feeble breath dead embers;—storms
Hung in the icy welkin; and the bare
Earth lay forlorn in Winter's charnel air.
And Youth all labour-bow'd, with wither'd look,43
Knelt by a rushing stream whose waves were gold,
And sought with lean strong hands to grasp the brook,
And clutch the glitter lapsing from the hold,
Till with mad laugh it ceased, and, tott'ring down,
Fell, and on frowning skies scowl'd back the frown.