Which gilds and glooms alternately his face?
Dreams he of glory?—of revenge?—or love?
Or seek his eyes those silent suns above,
With strange, deep yearnings for the mystic lore
The eastern Magi proudly held of yore?
When stars were gods, and he who bent the knee
To their far thrones, the future there might see—
Or why hath power so soon her mantle flung,
On one so fair, so slender, and so young?
III.