Peter's Unsung Spheres

Errata

 

The poem 'Why looked I on that Fatal line' listed as from The Ladies' Penny Gazette, is now attributed to Louise Stuart Costello, although it appeared in The London Literary Gazette on 4th October, 1823 under the initials M. E. This followed immediately some of L. E. L.'s 'Extracts from my Pocket Book', which probably accounts for the error.

 

The poem 'The Wind' first appeared in The New Monthly Magazine in August, 1824 with the initial O.

Subsequent appearances include:

1826 The Gossip - T. Campbell (editor of New Monthly). Unlikely as Campbell always published under his own name.

1827 Time’s Telescope - New Monthly

1830 The Every-Day Book - The Improvisatrice

1836 Didactics: Social, Literary and Political - (by R. Walsh) - Miss Landon

1903 Posy Ring - Letitia Elizabeth Landon (incomplete)

1910 San Francisco Call - Letitia Elizabeth Landon (incomplete)

According to F. J. Sypher, Landon submitted poems to The New Monthly prior to that first published under her own name. As there are no other poems signed 'O' it is vaguely possible that one of these early submissions was picked up and printed under that designation (O=Other, O=Outsider?). This can't be ruled out, as it did appear under Miss Landon's name during her lifetime and she never disclaimed it. It is on a theme that she returned to on a number of occasions and she may not have laid claim to it because it didn't fully satisfy her.

Anyway, it is generally attributed to L. E. L. today and until "O" can be otherwise identified, that may as well remain so.

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The Wind

 

The wind has a language, I would I could learn ! 

Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern, 

— Sometimes it comes like a low sweet song, 

And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along, 

And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain, 

And slumber sinks down on the wandering main, 

And its crystal arms are folded in rest, 

And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast. 

 

Sometimes when autumn grows yellow and sere, 

And the sad clouds weep for the dying year, 

It comes like a wizard, and mutters its spell, 

— I would that the magical tones I might tell— 

And it beckons the leaves with its viewless hand. 

And they leap from the branches at its command, 

And follow its footsteps with wheeling feet, 

Like fairies that dance in the moonlight sweet. 

 

Sometimes it comes in the wintry night, 

And I hear the flap of its pinions of might; 

And I see the flash of its withering eye, 

As it looks from the thunder-cloud sailing on high, 

And pauses to gather its fearful breath, 

And lifts up its voice like the angel of death, — 

And the billows leap up when the summons they hear, 

And the ship flies away as if winged with fear; 

And the uncouth creatures that dwell in the deep 

Start up at the sound from their floating sleep, 

And career through the waters, like clouds through the night, 

To share in the tumult their joy and delight. 

And when the Moon rises the ship is no more, 

Its joys and its sorrows are vanished and o’er;

And the fierce storm that slew it has faded away, 

Like the dark dream that flies from the light of the day.