We do not know each other-'tis the phrase
Of the cold, artful world which I abhor;
But in my heart I hear a voice that says,

I love thee, Isadora! 'mid the war
Of hopes and fears that make the poet's mind
Half heaven, half hell-to dread, while longing for

Death's momentary peace. I can unbind
The bonds of selfishness, and love thee more
Than fame, which is the breath of all mankind.

I first began an angel to adore,
When the deep organ's awe-inspiring strain
Call'd me to kneel the Maker's throne before.

But no! my spirit spread her wings in vain!
Too much of heaven was shining from thine eyes;
I hastened back, to bask in them again.

What wonder that I loved thee, or with sighs
Confined within my bosom's inmost cell
The flame which I as zealously did prize,

As doth the martyr's faith inflexible
That bigot-kindled chariot of fire
Which beareth him to Paradise to dwell!

What wonder that I loved! My heart and lyre
Still burn'd to live and breathe in passion's air,
To feel the presence of one pure desire,

To change this bleak world from the lion's lair
Into the nest of dove-like sympathy;
And, as the seaman loves the island fair

That shelters him from shipwreck, loved I thee;
And, with a miser's care, did I conceal
Love, which I wish'd that thou alone shouldst see.

Nor could my face the secret soul reveal,
Since harsh and sullen ever was my brow.
Nature hath there impressed her sternest seal;

Yet from the darkest mine hath oft, ere now,
Come brightest gems; and in the blackest clouds
The vivid lightning hath its home. And thou,

Fair Isadora, judge not with the crowd,
Who, by the features, feign to know the heart;
And, trust me, that my looks of coldness shroud

A soul where thou, mine own beloved, art
Worshipp'd with the most passionate excess
Of an affection that can but depart

With life, which otherwise were valueless.
Many there be whom I have made my foes,
By scorning all the petty meannesses

Which, like the thorns that gird the beauteous rose,
Surround the human heart, that would abjure
Its nobler feelings. There be some of those

Who, of themselves, unable to procure
One leaf from Fame's most bright but deadly tree,
Have enviously striven to obscure

The little light which God hath given me
Of that pure lamp of radiance supernal
Which on the altar of eternity

Burns opposite the throne of the Eternal-
Pure fount, whence Dante drew his inspiration.
Mine is a garland, that is ever vernal!

Although this bosom's throb of exultation
May shortly cease to animate my dust,
Though here my lot be friendless isolation,

Man may be cruel, God is not unjust;
And if on earth my mem'ry fade away
(As fade, my spirit prophesies, it must),

Perchance yon heaven shall echo to my lay,
And in the bowers of an eternal spring,
With blossoms bright as is the dawn of day,

Angels may crown this care-worn brow, and bring
The harp beloved, from whose chords may swell
'Neath touch of mine harmonious offering

To Him whose praise no tongue can fully tell.
Nor there shall Isadora cease to move
The heart in which she must for ever dwell;

But still the angel to his mortal love-
Mortal! how more angelic far than he-
Shall his sincerity immortal prove,

And with a purer passion think of thee.
But of my theme forgetful have I strayed,
Wiled on by Fancy's syren melody,

Too far from earth and thee, earth's fairest maid.
Let me this hasty scroll again retrace.
My foes-they smart 'neath self-contempt-have said.

He hates, but cannot love. Away! weak race
Of sordid unimpassioned souls-away!
When did the gaze of hawks and vultures base

The fire-eyed eagle's sunward course survey?
Nor can ye, mole-eyed, serpent-hearted sons
Of pride and avarice, comprehend the ray

Of seraph genius-heaven's own favoured ones,
Whose passions are sublimed to song divine,
Spurn judges such as thee! My spirit shuns

Communion, man of this low world, with thine,
And pities, though it hates thee not; but learn,
'Tis not for thee I weave one lay of mine,

And should despise myself couldst thou discern
Aught kindred to thy taste in what I sing.
Nor can thy falsehoods, which might richly earn

The sceptre borne by hell's malignant king,
Avail to sink a name that shall be great,
Upsoaring still on love's untiring wing,

Far, far beyond the swiftest darts of hate.
Said I, my memory would fade away?
I did injustice to my kinder fate;

That name a ceaseless echo yet shall stray,
Wide as the winds and waves in their career
Throughout this mighty globe, and shall repay

Those who defamed its lord while living here-
Or dying, rather-with unending scorn,
When after-times my miseries shall hear.

Oh, my own Isadora! I have borne
Much, nor complained till now. Forgive this song
Of a sad spirit, banished from hope's morn

To dwell in utter midnight. But I wrong
Thee, most celestial presence, who hast cast
A sweet enchantment o'er days erst so long,

Making them glide in gentle murmurs past,
Like the blue streams that first inspired my strain
In boyhood's joyous dream. Oh! thou who hast

Each pulse of feeling that may yet remain
In this o'er-tortured bosom, let me feel
That there is one who will not all disdain

The feeble working of a poet's zeal-
A poet's love, the essence of a mind
That scorns self-worship. Let me not appeal

In vain, thou dearest among womankind,
Lest I should even lose my faith in heaven,
When thee still deaf to my despair I find.

Against my passion I have vainly striven;
I saw thee-loved, and seeing thee, love on.
Hatred hath been, and love should be, forgiven.

True, I am poor, nor greatness calls me son;
My form and face not cast in beauty's mould.
But what are these? Hath not a world been won,

And glory, and the tyrant's fetter-gold,
By thy bold spirit, Colon? Though thy birth
Was humble yesterday, to-day, behold,

Thou'rt kin to all the mighty of the earth!
What was the master-passion of his soul?
The love of fame and life were little worth

Without this spur to action. Ages roll
Kings to oblivion; Time forgets us all,
All save the good and wise, and such control

Nations unborn, eternal kings whose thrall
Is o'er the thoughts of men. True empire this
To change to royal robes the funeral pall,

And govern from the grave.(1) They judge amiss
Who call my studies idleness, and me
Half-fool, half-madman. From the black abyss

Of chaos sprang this lovely world, and we
Its habitants; and so from forth this spirit
Shall burst the light of purest poesy.

Forms that angelic attributes inherit
Shall people my new world; and thou, my life,
Shalt have the homage which thou well dost merit,

And be the sun of all my song. Too rife
With lovely fancies hath existence been;
My woe hath still been constant as a wife,

Close clinging to my heart; but now the scene
Shifts like a vision, and my gloomy eyes
Behold but thee in majesty serene,

Making the earth thou tread'st a Paradise,
And cheering with thy smiles my loneliness,
Till on my soul new hopes like stars arise,

Banishing all the doubts that so oppress
The fretful mind of genius. Hark! that voice-
'Tis Isadora's! and its tones confess

A gentle pity. Let me not rejoice,
Lest, rudely wakened, I should dream no more.
Rather eternal slumber be my choice,

Than live the life I have lived heretofore,
The sport of my own fears. That sound again!
How sweet the voice of her whom we adore!

It blends, with ev'ry old familiar strain,
The simple music of our infancy
Which must for ever in our hearts remain,

Echoes of that celestial melody
Which tuned our spirits in some higher sphere,
Ere yet our feverish bodies were to be.

Thus float those much-loved accents to mine ear;
And thus methought my Isadora said-
'Arise, fond dreamer, from the silent bier

Of mournful solitude; arise, and tread
The path of life, nor fear thy weary feet
May stumble. To thine eyes all earth in spread

As with a green and mould'ring winding-sheet!
The azure skies are taintless. We are flowers,
And fade, but with an odour passing sweet-

A fragrancy like that of Eden's bowers;
Our spirits ascend the Empyrean. Hark!
What various music fills this earth of ours!

The winds, the waves, the insect, and the lark,
Pour harmonies spontaneous; and the shalt thou,
Whose element is faith, in mazes dark,

Of doubt and hell imaginings, linger now,
When light and song their influences blend
To lead thee back, with open hand and brow,

Among mankind, whom, if thou shouldst transcend
In aught, remember that the knowledge given
By the All-wise thou must not idly spend

In self-communion, but make ripe for heaven
Thy simpler brethren. Then arise, and shake
Off black misanthropy, and be forgiven,

Forgiving others-this do for my sake.'
So Isadora said-that spirit bright
(Whom brighter far thy lovelier form did make),

Sent from the regions of unfading light
To wean me from my darker self, and tear
The veil away that, dimmed by feeble sight

To all save thee, earth holds of good and fair;
And I, obedient to the blessed dream,
Rose up refreshed and strong, the taunts to bear

Of such as know me not, and only deem
Genius the deadly plague-spot of the mind-
The chain which binds to misery supreme

The vulture of Prometheus. They shall find,
Freed from the rosy bond of the ideal,
And by a pure philosophy refined,

This heart shall learn to grapple with the real,
And truth shall guide me through life's desert wild,
Passing unscathed its sorrowful ordeal,
Innocent, loving, fearless as a child.