r W.
Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:

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 u