Letitia Landon's Poetry in Periodicals

Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L E L)

Poems published in periodicals, primarily in The Literary Gazette - 3

FAME: AN APOLOGUE

The Three Brothers.

" The sands of those deserts which lie to the westward of Egypt are encroaching on and narrowing, by a constant and irresistible inroad, the valley of the Nile of Egypt. We see the pyramids gradually diminishing in height, particularly on their western sides ; and we read of town and villages which have been buried in the desert, but which once stood in fertile soils, some of whose minarets

were still visible a few years ago, attesting the powers of the invading sand. * * * Advancing, I repeat, to the annihilation of Egypt and all her glories, with the silence, but with the certainty too, of all-devouring time ! * * * We have a broad and inextinguishable flood of light breaking In on this death-like gloom."— Sir Rufane Donkin's Courts, &c. of the Niger.

I.

THEY dwelt in a valley of sunshine, those Brothers;

Green were the palm-trees that shadowed their dwelling;

Sweet, like low music, the sound of the fountains

That fell from the rocks round their beautiful home:

There the pomegranate blushed like the cheek of the maiden

When she hears in the distance the step of her lover,

And blushes to know it before her young friends.

They dwelt in the valley--their mine was the corn-field

Heavy with gold, and in autumn they gathered

The grapes that hung clustering together like rubies:

Summer was prodigal there of her roses,

And the ringdoves filled every grove with their song.

II.

But those Brothers were weary; for hope like a glory

Lived in each bosom--that hope of the future

Which turns where it kindles the heart to an altar,

And urges to honour and noble achievement.

To this fine spirit our earth owes her greatest:

For the future is purchased by scorning the present,

And life is redeemed from its clay soil by fame.

They leant in the shades of the palm-trees at evening,

When a crimson haze swept down the side of mountain:

Glorious in power and terrible beauty,

The Spirit that dwelt in the star of their birth

Parted the clouds and stood radiant before them:--

Each felt his destiny hung on that moment;

Each from his hand took futurity's symbol—

One took a sceptre, and one took a sword;

But a little lute fell to the share of the youngest,

And his Brothers turned from him and laughed him to scorn.

III.

And the King said, "The earth shall be filled with my glory:"

And he built him a temple--each porphyry column

Was the work of a life; and he built him a city—

A hundred gates opened the way to his palace,

(Too few for the crowds that there knelt as his slaves),

And the highest tower saw not the extent of the walls.

The banks of the river were covered with gardens;

And even when sunset was pale on the ocean,

The turrets were shining with taper and lamp,

Which filled the night-wind, as it passed them, with odours.

The angel of death came and summoned the monarch;

But he looked on the city, the fair and the mighty,

And said, "Ye proud temples, I leave ye my fame."

IV.

The conqueror went forth, like the storm over ocean,

His chariot-wheels red with the blood of the vanquished;

Nations grew pale at the sound of his trumpet,

Thousands rose up at the wave of his banners,

And the valleys were white with the bones of slain.

He stood on a mountain, no foeman was near him,

Heavy and crimson his banner was waving

O'er the plain where his victories were written in blood,

And he welcomed the wound whence his life's tide was flowing;

For death is the seal to the conqueror's fame.

V.

But the youngest went forth with his lute--and the valleys

Were filled with the sweetness that sighed from its strings;

Maidens, whose dark eyes but opened on palaces,

Wept as at twilight they murmured his words.

He sang to the exile the songs of his country,

Till he dreamed for a moment of hope and of home;

He sang to the victor, who loosened his captives,

While the tears of his childhood sprang into his eyes.

He died--and his lute was bequeathed to the cypress,

And his tones to the hearts that loved music and song.

VI.

Long ages pass'd, from the dim world of shadows

These Brothers return'd to revisit the earth;

They came to revisit the place of their glory,

To hear and rejoice in the sound of their fame.

They looked for the palace--the temple of marble—

The rose-haunted gardens--a desert was there;

The sand, like the sea in its wrath, had swept o'er them,

And tradition had even forgotten their names.

The Conqueror stood on the place of his battles,

And his triumph had passed away like a vapour,

And the green grass was waving its growth of wild flowers;

And they, not his banner, gave name to the place.

They passed a king's garden, and there sat his daughter,

Singing a sweet song remember'd of old,

And the song was caught up, and sent back like an echo,

From a young voice that came from a cottage beside.

Then smiled the Minstrel, "You hear it, my Brothers,

My Songs yet are sweet on the lute and the lip."

King, not a vestige remains of your palaces;

Conqueror, forgotten the fame of your battles:

But the Poet yet lives in the sweetness of music—

He appeal'd to the heart, that never forgets.

The Literary Gazette, 20th June 1829

FAREWELL

One word, altho' that word may pass

Almost neglected by ;

With no more care than what the glass

Bears of a passing sigh :

One word to breathe of love to thee,

One low, one timid word,

To say thou are beloved by me —

But, rather felt than heard.

I would I were a favourite flower,

Within thy hand to pine ;

Life could not have a dearer power

Than making such fate mine.

I would I were a tone of song,

Upon thine ear to die ;

A rose's breath, that, borne along,

I might mix with thy sigh.

I do not wish thy heart were won ;—

Mine own, with such excess,

Would, like the flower beneath the sun,

Die with its happiness.

I pray for thee on bended knee ;

But not for mine own sake ;

My heart's best prayers are all for thee —

It prays, itself to break.

Farewell ! farewell ! I would not leave

A single trace behind:

Why should a thought of me to grieve,

Be left upon thy mind ?

I would not have thy memory dwell

Upon one thought of pain ;

And sad it must be, the farewell

Of one who loved in vain.

Farewell ! thy course is in the sun.

First of the young, the brave :

For me, my race is nearly run,

And its goal is the grave.

The Literary Gazette, 11th June 1825

THE FAREWELL

Yes, I am changed ; yes, much much changed

Since first I sang to thee;

I marvel, knowing what I am,

At what I once could be.

The trace of pleasure on my heart

Was like that of the wind,

And sorrow's self had not then left

A deeper trace behind.

My song was like the bursting forth

Of the first birds in spring;

I had some thought of future flowers,

But none of withering.

I thought of love, but of love as

Love never yet was known ;

Of truth, of hope, of happiness —

But all these dreams are flown.

As sometimes on Italian shores

At dawn of day is seen

A fleeting show of fairy land,

Just such my life has been.

How I now loathe my dreams of song !

They have been so untrue ;

But more I loathe the dearer dream,

The one that dwelt with you!

Farewell to one, farewell to all,

Both song and love are o'er;

The essence of their life is past,

For they deceive no more !

The Literary Gazette, 27th March 1824

POETICAL CATALOGUE OF PAINTINGS

THE FEMALE HEAD on the left of “The Hours."

A dream of saddest beauty: one pale smile

Its light upon the blue-veined forehead shed,

As Love had lingered there one little while,

Robbed the cheek of its colour, and then fled ;

Yet leaving a sweet twilight shade, which said

There had been sunshine once. Alas ! the bloom,

The light, the hope, at Love's shrine offered !

Yet all in vain, — that altar is a tomb

Of broken hearts, its oracle but words of doom !

The Literary Gazette, 3rd May 1823

POETIC SKETCHES

Fifth Series— Sketch the First

FIDELITY

-- -- -- -- There is

A self-devotedness in Woman's heart

That has no place in Man's. A man may love —

Aye, yield his life, his fortune, as the Roman

Once gave the world for his Egyptian Queen,

The dark eyed beauty— but not his faith;

Gentle, confiding, tried with chance and change,

Yet still the same, vowed to the grave, the absent,

And to the false. There is not one such lore !

Yes — Man can leave his heart's religion, turn,

And kneel apostate to some novel creed —

But Woman never. — —

There is a low sweet sound of voice and lute

From yonder casement, which the Provence rose

Hides with its thousand flowers; a maiden there

Leans, with the roses clinging round her arms

And neck, as if they loved her: from her lute

Her hand is waking music, and her lips

Almost unconsciously repeat the words

Of some old song, by love and sorrow made

An echo of the heart, ‘Tis a fair scene :

Those silver olive trees, more silvery

As the moonlight shines o'er them ; the blue sky,

Which seems to join the old dark wood, and make

The boundary of the quiet world ; the vines

Girdling those distant hills ; the river hung

With willows, whose green weeping only shows

At intervals the diamond waters, set

With broad leaved lilies and their snow white towers;

Small islands, with their fairy palaces ;

And then the lute, the lattice, and the girl,

The white rose, and the melancholy song —

Oh, Night, thy reign is over lovely things ! —

A broader shadow is upon the stream

Where yon old castle stands, and melody

Comes forth, rejoicing on the ear of night ;

Not one lone lute, but a full gush of sound,

Heard from a thousand instruments : the harp

Sends its rich sweep of music, and wind-horns

Wake like deep voices of the element.

And there are rainbow lamps around the hall,

Shedding a rosy hue upon the pearls

And purple glory on the diamonds

In the dark tresses of the high-born dames,

Who move around like queens; and there are seen

Vases, like silver clouds, whose glimmerings soft

Light alcoves, filled with rare and costly flowers,

The Indian rose, the golden jessamine.

And there the beautiful recline, whose arms

Look snow in the white ray. Around the walls

Hang purple draperies and gorgeous frames,

Each one a picture of long ancestry,

Armed knights, and robed lords, and lovely dames

And, like their shadows, on the ground beneath

Move knights and ladies, each as fair and proud.

Red wine and golden cups are on the board,

And their gay benison is AMIRALD' S health,

The castle's younger lord. And many an eye

Shed its blue morning on the graceful youth,

And many marvelled at the silent mood

In which he turned away from the bright dance

To listen to some minstrel. Oh, the heart

Knows not the power of music till it loves ! —

And AMIRALD stood lost in gentle thoughts,

Till, like a sigh, the music ceased, and then

Turned softly to a window, and flung back

The crimson curtain, and saw the cold moon

Shine o'er the olive-crested plain beneath :

It was a window that he loved, it looked

Upon the cottage of the white rose tree —

The cottage of his Love. But morning came

To end their revelling. And strange it was,

And something sad, to mark the sudden change :

The dancers gone, — the music, and the lamps

Dying before the cold gray glare of day, —

The silence, solitude, the withered flowers —

Oh! moral of enjoyment! — scattered, crushed : —

The pale checks of the few that staid, like ghosts

Haunting the footsteps of departing mirth,

While the bright pictures over them looked down

Almost in mockery. And AMIRALD,

Like his guests, left the hall — was it to cool

His fevered brow with the fresh breath of morn ?—

His is a hurried step for that. But see,

A fair shape bounds to meet him. ‘Tis his Love —

The same sweet spirit of the last night's lute,

Bright as a spring day, and as beautiful ;

The colour of the morning on her cheek,

Her auburn curls flung loose upon the air,

Their only pearls a few clear dew drops, caught

In passing thro’ the roses. Her sweet face

Is lighted up with gladness, and her eyes

Are laughing as her lips ; but in their blue,

Their deep, their changeful melancholy blue,

There is a passionate tenderness, too like

Warning or omen of her destiny.

It is not happiness! " See, AMIRALD, dear —

(She said, as, stretching forth her small white hands,

She showed them full of flowers)— see, I too have

A birth-day offering for you ; take my wreath,

‘Tis bright as hope, and try if you can read

Its gentle meanings ; or — no, I will be

My flowers' interpreter : This violet,

My AMIRALD, is like your EVA'S fate;

This rose — is it not summer-sweet as love ?

And this green myrtle is our constancy."

Within his bosom AMIRALD hid the buds,

And led the maiden to a little bank

Covered with violets — they were Spring's last.

The chesnut overhead had kept the sun

From wasting their pure lives ; and by the side

There was a little brook, whose pebbles shone

Like Indian stones— and there they past the noon.

And day by day thus past, till came a time

For tears, for farewell, and fidelity.

And AMIRALD sought the court. Oh, then the change,

The contrast, in the spirit of their love!

The one went on his round of gaiety,

The crown'd knight of the tournament, whose helm

Wore every lady's colours as they came :

The troubadour, with song to any vowed ;

The cavalier, the gayest of the hall —

And this was AMIRALD. Now for his Love :

There is a pale girl on that violet bank —

Her bright curls hang neglected , and her cheek —

Has sickness wasted thus its bloom away ?

Or is it the heart's withering ? She has pined

In that worst of all solitudes— the blank

That comes when love's enchanted world decays

Into reality. She was forgotten —

But she could not forget, nor even reproach.

His name still lingered on her lute, and still

The chain he gave was treasured next her heart.

It was a summer noon — she had beguiled

Time with an old romance ; it told how once

A maiden had cut off her long dark hair,

And as a page had with her lover gone

To Palestine, and with her life saved his.

And EVA pondered o'er and o'er the tale,

And thought on the deep happiness, to see,

Perhaps to serve, her AMIRALD again.

All day she thought upon it, and at night

It was amid her dreams. At last she went

And join'd her faithless love. He knew her not ;

But yet she was his favourite — none could tune

The lute with so much tenderness, none sing

So soft a love lay. Twice the Spring had flung

Her gift of bloom and balm upon the wind

Since she was with him ; and sometimes she thought

His heart still hers, although he could not break

The chains that pleasure, habit, round him flung —

Perhaps false shame ; for, that he would not sue

For pardon, tho' he knew that pardon were

The happiness of both. . . . But, fell at last

A deadly sickness on the city ; death

Came like a conqueror ; the lover died

By his bride at the altar ; upon some

It came down sudden, like the lightning stroke ;

On others, slow and wasting, not less deadly.

AMIRALD sickened, but all fled his couch,

For their flight was from death— but EVA staid

And watched, and soothed, and solaced. ‘Twas one night

For the first time she dared to hope— his hand

Lost its red heat, and he slept quietly.

At last he waked, and waked to consciousness.

With but a dim remembrance of his pain,

And some fair shadow that had by his couch

Watched like the spirit of health, he gazed around,

And saw a boy, a wan and sickly boy,

Kneeling in silent tears before the cross —

And then he knew his EVA'S deep blue eyes,

And called upon her name ; and, with a cry

Of joy and thankfulness, she sprang beside,

And bowed her pale lips softly on his brow —

That kiss sealed his recovery !

Again the lamps are bright in his old hall

Again the feast is spread, and music heard !

It is a marriage festival ! The bride

Is EVA, and her long fidelity

Has won her AMIRALD!

The Literary Gazette, 17th July 1824

THE FLOATING BEACON

Why art thou thus, thou lonely bark,

The last on the darkling sea?

Why are thy sails to the night-wind spread,

And why shines that light on thee ?

Why art thou here, thou lonely bark,

When the other ships are gone ?

I deemed thee away, with those to-day ;

But still thou art sailing alone.

There came a voice from the lonely bark,

Or mine own thoughts answered to me :

Spread is my sail to the midnight gale,

And my light shines lone on the sea ;

For my watch is by the shoal and the sand,

And the rock that is hidden by night,

And many a mariner kneels at home,

And blesses the beacon light.

Is not my light like that holier light

That heaven sheds over life's path,

Thought not of, prized not in stillness and shine,

But welcomed in darkness and wrath !

The Literary Gazette, 23rd August 1823

First in a group of three Fragments

FRAGMENTS

Third Series

THE FORSAKEN

Oh cast that shadow from thy brow.

My dark-eyed love ! be glad awhile :

Has Leila's song no music now ?

Is there no charm in Leila's smile ?

There are young roses in my hair,

And morn and spring are on their bloom ;

Yet you have breathed their fragrant air

As some cold vapour from the tomb.

There stands the vase of crystal light,

Veined with the red wine's crimson stains, —

Has the grape lost its spell to-night ?

For there the cup untouched remains.

I took my lute for one sad song,

I sang it, tho' my heart was wrung, —

The sweet sad notes we've loved so long ;

Yet heard you not, tho' Leila sung.

I press'd my pale pale cheek to thine, —

Tho' it was wet with many tears,

No pressure came, to answer mine,

No murmur breathed, to soothe my fears.

Ah, silent still ? then know I all

My fate ! And must we part at last?

In mercy, gentle Heaven, recall

Only the memory of the past !

Never yet did the first June flower

Bare purer bosom to the bee,

Than that which yielded to Love's power,

And gave its sweetest wealth to thee.

'Twas a new life : the earth, the sky,

Seemed to grow fairer for thy sake ;

But this is gone, — oh destiny,

My heart is withered, bid it break !

My garden will lie desolate,

My flowers will die, my birds will pine;

All I once loved I now shall hate,

With thee changed every thing of mine.

Oh speak not now, it mocks my heart,

How can hope live when love is o'er ?

I'only feel that we must part,

I only know — we meet no more!

The Literary Gazette, 17th January 1824

FRAGMENT

I know but little of her history,

For feelings are veiled records, which lie deep

Within the heart that beats with them. She was

Rich : — you proud castle, with its ivied towers,

And this fair park, and yonder spreading woods,

Nature's old sanctuaries, were hers :— and young—

I think that twenty summers were the most

That she had numbered : — and, oh beautiful—

A creature like a memory for the heart ; —

Hair black as is the thunder cloud— a lash

Yet blacker still, and soft large eyes, where light

And darkness met : the outline of her face

Was as a Grecian statue, but more sweet,

More feminine, from gentle smiles that seemed

Its nature : — and her name was as a chord

That wakened music — so much was she loved.

The last of all her race : one after one

Had died of strange and terrible disease,

The red insanity — and she at length

Was struck like all her house ; her radiant eye

Lost its humanity ; the fine clear brow

Was darkened with a shadow ; and her lip

Lost rose and smile together. She was sad,

Silent, and restless ; and what time the moon

Filled her pale urn with golden light, vague fears

And unreal terrors haunted her scared nights,

And shadows seemed to compass her, and sounds.

To which she made wild answers : other time

Past away sad, but quiet ; she would sit

For hours beside this fountain, while its flow,

Like music, calmed and entered in her soul.

This did not last ; she visibly declined ;

Flushed the rose hectic on her crimson cheek,

And her eyes filled with strange and passionate light,

As if they burnt themselves away. She died —

But peacefully : 'twas like an angry child,

Whose troubles end in sleep. She went to join

The pure fine spirit which I must believe

Had sought its heaven before.

The Literary Gazette, 6th October 1827

FRAGMENT

Oh it is veriest vanity to love ! —

Lovers are misers, who hoard up a store

Of wealth that cannot profit them, but turns

To weariness or waste. And what is love,

So sought with deep anxiety till won ?

Beautiful disappointment when once gained.

We are now seated by a green turf grave :

The white rose, which hangs o'er it droopingly.

Parched by the summer, for which yet it pined

Throughout the winter, is the history

Of its cold tenant. She was a fair girl,

The very flower of Andalusian maids;

No one so often heard the light guitar

Steal on her midnight ; and tho' rarely gold

Or pearls bound her dark tresses, there were few

Of nobler birth, or of more Indian wealth.

So very young, so beautiful, 'twas like

The sudden fading of a bud in spring —

On which there is no mark of blight or worm,

When her place was found vacant in the dance.

And her soft voice was missed ; when it was said

That in a convent's solitude she hid

The light and bloom of her sweet April time.

They did not know how youth's best pleasures pall

When the heart is not in them, or how much

Of happiness is in those secret thoughts

Which each hides from the other. ISABEL

Lived but in one deep feeling, for she loved—

Loved with that wild and intense love which dwells

In silence, secrecy, and hopelessness,

And deemed a cloister was the fittest shade

For unrequited tenderness; and love,

Nourished by blushes and by passionate tears,

Grew like a fairy flower, until it filled

The solitary heart with fancied beauty. —

They say there is a destiny in love :

'Twas so with ISABEL. Some one had breathed

The secret cause that turned her from the world;

She had been loved although she knew it not,

And vow and veil of the dark convent cell

Were changed for bridal ones.

Alas, the vanity of these warm feelings !

A little while, and hers was happiness ;

But this low grave, where rests the broken heart.

May tell how short it was. The heart which made

A world itself of visionary hopes.

Might never bear the chill realities,

All that affection has to learn and brook

When its first colouring is departed. Love,

I can but liken thee to the red bloom

Upon the apple,— making the outside bright,

But reaching not the core !

The Literary Gazette, 16th August 1823

FRAGMENT

— — — — — — — — — — A solitude

Of green and silent beauty, just a home

Where I could wish to weep my life away

In utter loneliness, and never more

Hear human voice, or look on human face.

It is a secret place among the hills :

Little and dark the valley lies below,

And not a taint of earth is on the air,

Which the lip drinks pure as the stream whose source

Is hidden here, — large rocks have girthed it in ;

All palaces for the eagle are their sides,

Safe or far safer than a sanctuary, —

For even that, though shielded by God's name,

Man holds not sacred. Here at least his power

Is neither felt nor feared. The chamois rests

When harassed, as the powerless ever are ;

It flies before the hunter. Small as still,

A skilful archer's bow would send the shaft

Across its utmost boundary, and half

Is covered with dark pines, which in the spring

Send forth sweet odours, even as they felt

As parents do, rejoicing o'er their children

In the green promise of their youthful shoots,

The spreading of their fresh and fragrant leaves.

The other part is thinly scattered o'er

With dwarf oaks, stinted both in leaves and growth.

And in the midst there are two stately firs,

The one dark in its hoary foliage, like

A warrior armed for battle ; but the next

Has lost its leafy panoply, the bark

Stripped from the trunk, the boughs left black and bare

By some fierce storm to which it would not bend, —

Like a high spirit, proud, though desolate.

At one end is a cavern, musical

With falling waters : roof, and floor, and walls

Are set with sparry gems, snow turned to treasure;

Beyond is black as night, or grief, or death,

And thence there comes a silent stream, which takes

Onward its quiet course, then, through a break,

The only one amid the mountains, goes

Down to the world below. And it should be

My task in fanciful similitudes

To trace a likeness for my destiny.

Those pale blue violets, which in despite

Of snow, or wind, or soil, cling to the rock

In lonely beauty— they are like my love,

My woman's love : it grew up amid cares

And coldness, yet still like those flowers it lived

On in its fragrance: but far happier they,

They rest in their lone home's security,

While, rooted from its dear abode, my love

Was scattered suddenly upon the wind,

To wither and to die. And the blue stream

Will be another emblem : cold and calm

It leaves its dwelling-place, — soon over rocks

Torrents like headlong passions hurry it—

Its waters lose their clearness, weeds and sands

Choke it like evil deeds, and banks upraised

By human art, obstruct and turn its course,

Till, worn out by long wanderings, it seeks,

Its strength gone by, some little quiet nook

Where it may waste its tired waves away.

So in this solitude might I depart,

My death unwatch'd ! I could not bear to die,

And yet see life and love in some dear eye.

Why should I wish to leave some faithful one

With bleeding heart to break above my grave ?

Oh no, — I do but wish to pass away

Unloved and unremembered !

The Literary Gazette, 18th October 1823

FRAGMENTS

[1]

I looked upon the twilight Star,

And young blue eyes shone by my side,

And, with a lover's fondness, wished

It were a home for my sweet Bride !

Were my words sin, that I should have

To weep upon my fatal prayer ?

My seat is by IANTHE’S grave —

That twilight Star is shining there !

[2]

- - - - - It is the last survivor of a race

Strong in their forest-pride when I was young.

I can remember, when for miles around,

In place of these smooth meadows and corn-fields,

There stood ten thousand tall and stately trees,

Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt

Sent by the summer lightning, and the snow

Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the depth

Of hot July the glades were cool ; the grass,

Yellow and parched elsewhere, grew long and fresh,

Shading wild strawberries and violets,

Or the lark's nest ; and overhead, the dove

Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home

With melancholy songs ; and scarce a beech

Was there without a honeysuckle linked

Around, with its red tendrils and pink flowers ;

Or girdled by a brier rose, whose buds

Yield fragrant harvest for the honey-bee.

There dwelt the last red deer, those antler'd kings. - - - -

But this is as a dream, — the plough has pass'd

Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked

On the green twilight of the forest-trees.

This Oak has no companion ! - - - -

[3]

I should have prised thy heart, if none

Had ever had that heart but me, —

If I had been the only one,

The first, the last beloved by thee!

Thy hope, thy memory, — the all

Thy wish could pant for or recall !

But mine ! mine is a second claim,

Not incense from your earliest sighs ;

How can I love or trust the flame

First lighted at another's eyes ?

The relics of another's shrine

Are worthless offerings at mine !

Can any love be like first love ?

Sweets to the withered rose impart ?

Light to yon setting star above ?

Then tell me I have all your heart

Till then, farewell, — I may not bear

Not to possess, but only share.

[4]

There is a curse laid on the human heart

Which hath a power, beyond all other things,

To wither and to waste : — disease, distress,

Remorse and poverty, are nothing to it !

It comes like winter on the bloom of youth,

Destroying and despoiling, till the cheek

Is pale with that worst famine, want of hope, —

Till the eyes have no brightness but their tears ;

Till health be gone with hope, and till the heart

Has not a wish beyond the quiet grave ;

When every pulse throbs languidly, and life

Has its best hours still numbered, as they count

The listless moments in the solitude

Of a sick room, but by their weariness.

When pleasure's self is loathed ; when feelings turn

With shuddering at the too impassioned past,

Yet shrinking from the cold and gloomy future,

And pine and prey upon the present time,

Having no pity, as Death has on youth,

On loveliness, on genius, or on glory,—

This curse is ill-placed love ! - - - -

[5]

Nay, pray thee, let me weep, for tears

Are Love's most fitting offerings:

I'll weep his smiles, I'll weep his sighs,

But, more than all, I'll weep his wings.

I'll weep his smiles, for they first taught

My young heart what his sighs could be ;

I'll weep his wings, for they have, borne

Away the truth You plighted me !

The Literary Gazette, 19th April 1823

FRAGMENTS

Just two or three faint chords

[1]

The lights are fair in my father's hall.

The red wine is bright to see ;

But I'll flee like a bird and leave them all,

My Ocean Love ! for thee.

There is gold around my silken robe,

And white pearls are in my hair :

And they say that gems and the broidered vest

Are woman's chiefest care ;

But dearer to me is one silent smile

Of thine eagle eye than them all ;

And dearer the deck of thy bark to me

Than my father's lighted hall.

I have no home now but thy arms,

And they are the world to me ;

And be thou but true, I'll never regret

All, dear love ! I have left for thee.

[2]

Love once dwelt in a palmy isle,

His palace of the green leaves' shade,

A chain of rose upon his wings.

Whose guardian was a dark-eyed Maid.

They lived in sweet companionship :

Enough for him one smile so bright ;

Enough for her to live for him.

To watch his chain, to keep it light.

But once the Nymph lay down to sleep,

Leaving her fragrant chain undone ;

And Love awakened while she slept,

Shook off his fetters, and was gone.

The morning came, the Nymph arose,

And looked on her deserted chain ;

Vain were her tears, and vain her prayer,

For never Love returned again !

[3]

A blue Italian sky, — yet scarce more blue

Than the clear lake beneath, — upon whose breast

Are gliding two or three light boats, with sails

Floating and waving gracefully like clouds.

On the one side are corn and green grass fields.

And olive, groves and vineyards, and one shrine, —

One ruined shrine, — sacred in other days

To some most radiant nymph or starry queen,

Whose sweet divinity was beauty. Near

Is a lone cavern, with its azure fount

Shaded by roses and a laurel tree,

Beneath whose shade might the young painter lean,

And gaze around until his passionate hues

Caught light and life and loveliness. Steep hills

Are on the other side, upon whose heights

Dark Hannibal once rested. Who could dream

That this calm lake was crimson once with blood ?

That these green myrtles waved o'er the death-wounds

Of men in their last agony ? Oh, War !

How soon thy red fiends can lay desolate

The holy and the beautiful !

[4]

Then fare thee well, love, for a little while !

Take this rose, I have kissed it for thee ;

Now I will not give thee one single smile,

If 'tis withered when brought back to me.

The noon is now rising pale, pale in the east,

Like a circle of silver dew;

And as she has looked on our parting kiss,

She must look on our meeting one too.

Wilt thou not, dearest, be back to mine arms

Ere her zenith shines yellow above ?

Think thee that then I am watching her course,

And that moments are ages in love.

[5]

Do any thing but love ; or if thou lovest

And art a Woman, hide thy love from him

Who thou dost worship ; never let him know

How dear he is ; flit like a bird before him, —

Lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower ;

But be not won, or thou wilt, like that bird,

When caught and caged, be left to pine neglected,

And perish in forgetfulness.

The Literary Gazette, 26th April 1823

FRAGMENTS

Fourth Series

[1]

A small clear fountain, with green willow trees

see The Thessalian Fountain in The Vow of the Peacock

[2]

SONG.

Take back your wreath, your sunny wreath,

'Tis mockery to give it me !

The summer’s bloom, the summer's breath

Are not what should be offered me.

For though those flowers may fade and fall,

How very sweet their life has been !

And fragrant still the coronal,

Though dead the blush and sear the green.

They are perhaps an offering

To scatter on my funeral stone ;

For flowers are not made for the Spring,

Which only blight and blast has known.

But take some veil in darkness wove.

And fling its shadow o'er my brow,

It will be like the cloud which love

Has thrown around my past and now !

The Literary Gazette, 24th January 1824

FRAGMENTS - FlFTH SERIES

Gleamings of poetry, if I may give

That name of passion, beauty, and of grace.

To visionings like these, oh ! if not sweet

To others, yet how very sweet to me.

Fancies that gather in the silent hour.

When I have watched the stars write on the sky

In characters of light; have seen the moon

Come like a veiled beauty from the east,

While, like a hymn, the wind swelled on mine ear,

Telling soft tidings of the rose : or when

My heart has drunk sweet music, whose low tones

Were as love's own ; when I have closed some page,

Whose tale made sorrows lovelier than smiles.

And imaged to myself all phantasies

That wait on love ; thought on its many griefs,

Been jealous and forsaken, slighted, wronged,

Until almost each mood became mine own ;—

Or when, before the painter's glorious works,

I have bowed down in my idolatry :

These are the thoughts to which my soul has turned,

When cold neglect or scorn have wrung or scorched.

Oh, there are moments when my heart has dreamed

Of things which cannot be— the bright, the pure,

That all of which my heart can only dream.

And I have mused upon my gift of song,

And deeply felt its beauty, and disdained

The pettiness of praise to which, at times,

My soul has bowed ; and I have scorned myself

For that my cheek could burn, my heart could beat

At idle words. And yet, it is in vain

For the full heart to press back every pulse

Wholly upon itself. Aye, fair as are

The dreams that bless a poet's solitude :

There must be something more for happiness—

They seek communion. But, no more of this.

Yet such wild snatches of my lute belong

To hours like these, when that impassioned thoughts

Glance o'er mv spirits— thoughts that are like Light,

Or Love, or Hope, in their effects.

[1]

My heart is as a grave,

Where Hope and Love lie sleeping;

With its dark thoughts like cypress,

Watching and weeping.

Yet, flowers are on that grave,

Albeit sad they be ;

And hidden treasures in it.

Sweet memories of thee.

My heart is as a gem,

Sullied and broken,

But bearing signs that make it still

A precious token.

Thy image has been there ;

Nothing can quite efface

The beauty of the spot

Which has been thy resting place :

As that garden of the East,

In itself no longer fair.

Has yet perfume on its beds,

For the rose has once bloomed there.

[2]

Now for the gay, the cold, the free,

To suit mine altered mood —

Oh, any thing but thoughts of thee,

Or aught but solitude.

And surely, amid mirth and light.

My spirit back may fling

The clouds before its upward flight,

The weight upon its wing.

For the first time I threw aside

In anger my loved lute ;

When before, ever, had I tried

My chords, and found them mute.

I sought the lighted hall, but there

The spell still on me lay ;

Brightness and song came on the air,

They drove it not away.

My step lagged in the saraband ;

Unheard, gay words passed by ;

The flowers dropt from my listless hand,

The tears rushed to mine eye.

A shadow o'er my spirit came ;

It was in vain I strove.

What was it ! My heart nam'd a name :

I strove no more — 'twas Love.

[3]

Oh, no, my heart is given

To other dreams, than those

Like the first fresh colours

Upon the early rose.

They are not dreams of hope ;

For hope has been to me,

In its pleasure and its pain.

What again it cannot be.

My dreams are not of wealth ;

A gold or silver mine.

Or Oman's bay of pearls,

Cannot win one wish of mine.

Nor yet are they of fame ;

Too well I know the fate

That is the high one's lot,

To be bright and desolate.

But all my dreams are turned

To one single star above :

I name life's most fatal one,

Name I not that of Love !

[4]

Forget thee — I may not forget,

But yet my heart may turn

From the shrine of its early god,

Another faith to learn.

Another altar may be raised,

Another idol lie ;

But can I ever feel for them

What I have felt for thee !

The convert, who, with opened eyes,

Has learnt to know the truth ;

Will never memory recall

His creed of early youth !

Thus I , altho' I know how false

The worship that I paid,

Must still regret the early zeal

Which truth of falsehood made,

The Literary Gazette, 18th June 1825

FRAGMENTS

I.

There are ten thousand visions of delight

Floating around, as if their birth and flight

Were with the golden showers of day that fall

Through the thick leaves, — would I could live them all !

Beautiful fancies, wherefore are not ye

Hopes, wishes, that are possible to be ?

I would I were a Fairy, — I would dwell

In the pavilion of yon blue harebell,

Companion of the butterfly and bee,

Whose honey treasures should be shared with me.

Or, for an older dream, — would yon lone wood

Had me the Oread of its solitude—

The gentle spirit of the place, to shed

New springs of flowers at my lightest tread,

And, with the sunny waves of my bright hair,

To shake out dew and freshness every where :

And when my green and summer life was past

To die with one sweet pining song at last.

Alas ! alas ! we feel too much we live

But by earth's soil and sorrow : I would give

My own apart existence, to be blent

With the sun-shine, or the blue element.

Would I could plunge into the lighted air

And be, transfused, of it!

II.

No more, no more, why should I dream

Dreams that I know are vain ?

Why trust the future, when the past

I would not live again?

Affection, — 'tis the glittering wealth

Of snow-work in the sun ;

Pleasure, — the rocket's shining course,

Ended ere well begun.

Hope, the false music, luring where

The syren Sorrow dwells ;

And Praise a very mockery.

The chime of the fool's bells.

And yet, alas ! for the fond time

When I believed all this,

Although 'twas nothing but a dream,

At least the dream was bliss.

The heart is like those fairy rings,

Where all of green has died ;

Yet there, they say, the fairy race

By moonlight wont to ride.

We hold to that gay creed no more —

Gone is the elfin reign ;

Yet, surely, such fair visions fled

Is more of loss than gain.

But thus it is, as years pass on,

Even with our own heart ;

We see the visions, one by one,

Of early youth depart.

We gaze around — all is the same

O'er which our young eye ranged ;

But — sorrow for the heart and eye ! —

Ourselves, ourselves are changed.

The Literary Gazette, 5th August 1826

THE FUNERAL BRIDE

An Italian Legend.

It is but daybreak — yet Count Leon's halls

Are crowded with the young, the fair, the gay ;

And there is music, and all sign of mirth —

The board that shines with silver, and with wine

Sparkling like liquid ruby in bright cups ;

Flowers are strewn over the white marble floor ;

And every beauty wears a snowy robe,

Blushing most consciously at the soft words

That dark-eyed cavaliers are whispering.

It is a bridal — but where is the bride ?

Enter yon lofty room — the bride is there.

Jewels are by her that a king might give,

His favourite daughter's dower ; and her bright hair

Has pearls that Cleopatra might have worn,

Pure as just from the ocean treasure-cave ; —

They are the lover's gifts, and he is one

Of Genoa's richest nobles ; and the bride,

Genoa has no loveliness like hers.

The orange buds were placed upon her breast,

Yet Isabel moved not : paused she to take

One last look on the sweet face in her mirror —

To watch the rainbow-light her coronet

Threw o'er her forehead from its many gems?

Oh, no ! where is the conscious smile, the flush,

That should light lady's cheek at such a time ?

Her mother saw — albeit she would not seem

To mark the absence of the maiden's mind,

But led her forth where friends and kinsmen stay'd

Her entrance in the gay and gorgeous hall :

Pity was mix'd with wonder as she came —

Wonder at her exceeding loveliness —

And pity— there were many knew her heart

And hand went not together. There she stood,

Like the sweet rising of the summer moon, —

Beautiful, but so very, very wan,

The crimson even from her lip was gone.

She stood — a statue which has every charm

Of woman's perfect beauty — but her blush.

The silver veil that o'er her forehead hung

Half hid its paleness, and the downcast eye

That droop'd with tears, seem'd only modest fear.

On they went to the temple, and they paused

Before the altar, where for the first time

The bridegroom leant close beside Isabel, —

And the next moment she lay on the steps,

White as the marble which her cold cheek press'd.

—The feast was turn'd to mourning, and the flowers,

The bridal flowers, bestrew'd her winding-sheet:

The instruments broke off in a dead pause,

And the rich festive board was spread in vain.— —

Next night, by torchlight, did they bear the bride

Into the vault where slept her ancestors.

Wail'd the wild dirge, and waved the sable plume,

Spread the dark pall — and childless they went home.

But there was one whose misery was madness —

One to whom Isabel had been the hope

Which had made life endurable, who lived

For her, and in her — who, in childhood's days,

Had been the comrade of her summer walk.

They had grown up together, and had loved,

Uncheck'd, until Cesario's father died,

And the proud fortunes of his ancient house

Seem'd falling, and the orphan youth had left

But little, save his honourable name.

Then came the greeting cold, the careless look,

All that adversity must ever know; —

They parted, he and Isabel ; but still

There is a hope in love, unquenchable, —

A flame, to which all things are oil, while safe

In the affection which it knows return'd.

And the young lover had some gallant dreams

Of wooing fame and fortune with his sword,

And by these winning his own Isabel.

At that time Genoa battled with the Turk,

And all her young nobility went forth

To earn their country and themselves renown :

Then home they came again, and with them brought

Tidings of victory o'er the infidel.

Cesario was the first that sprung to land,

While his name rose in triumph from the crowd,

For his fame was before him ; yet he made

No pause to listen, though his breast beat high

With honourable joy ; but praise was not

Worth love to the young hero, and he sought

Tidings, sweet tidings of his Isabel.

He drew his cloak around his martial garb,

Look'd on the evening sky, which was to him

Like morning to the traveller, and found

The garden nook, where one small hidden bower

Was the green altar Memory raised to Love.

How much the heart, in its young hours of passion,

Delights to link itself with lovely things,

With moonlight, stars, and songs, fountains and flowers

As if foreboding made its sympathy,—

Alike so very fair, so very frail !

It was within this bower they wont to meet ;

And one amid their many parting vows

Was, that the twilight should be consecrate

Still to each other ; and, though far away,

Their thoughts, at least, should blend. And Isabel

Vow'd to the pale Madonna that one hour ;

And said that every setting sun should hear

Her orisons, within that lonely bower,

Rise for Cesario. It was twilight now,

And the young warrior deem'd that he should meet

In her green temple his beloved one.

'Twas a sweet solitude, and mingled well

Present and past together ; myrtle stems

Shook silver flowers from their blossom'd boughs,

And in the shelter of a cypress tree

Stood the Madonna's image, the white arms

Cross'd in the deep humility of love.

Heavenward the sweet and solemn brow was raised,

And lips, whose earthly loveliness yet seem'd

To feel for earthly misery, had prayers

Upon their parted beauty; and around

Roses swung perfume from their purple urns.

He waited there until the laurel leaves,

With silver touched, grew mirrors for the moon ,

But yet she came not near — at length he saw

Her lute flung careless on the ground, with rust

Upon its silver strings, and by its side

A wreath of wither'd flowers. He gazed no more —

His heart was as if frozen — it had sunk

At once from its high pitch of happiness. —

He sought her father's palace, for his fear

Was more than he could suffer : — there he learnt

His own, his beautiful, was in the grave;

And, it was told, laid there by love of him.

He stay'd no question, but rush'd to the church,

Where gold soon won his entrance to her tomb.

Scarce the lamp show'd the dim vault where he stood

Before the visible presence of the dead.

And down the warrior bow'd his face, and wept

For very agony, or ere he nerved

His eye to gaze on that once worshipp'd brow.

At last he look'd — 'twas beautiful as life, —

The blue vein lighted up the drooping lid, —

The hair like sunshine lay upon the cheek,

Whose rose was yet like summer, — and the lip,

He could not choose but kiss it, 'twas so red : —

He started from its touch, for it was warm,

And there was breath upon it, — and the heart,

As if it only lived to beat for him,

Now answer'd to his own. No more, no more ! —

Why lengthen out the tale ? — words were not made

For happiness so much as sorrowing.

The legend of the buried bride is yet

A household history in Genoa,

Told by young lovers, in their day of hope,

Encouraging themselves, as to the fate

That waits fidelity.

The New Monthly Magazine, 1826

THE GATHERING -- KOERNER

The people are risen — the storm is unbound —

Whoso with folded arms shall be found,

Shame on the loiterer wherever he be,

At the hearth,* in the hall, by the plough on the lea—

Dishonour on thy useless hand !

A German maid shall kiss thee not,

A German song rejoice thee not,

And German wine shall warm thee not !

He who has strength to wield a brand,

Let him draw it now for his father-land !

While we are laid on the battle plain,

Drenched to the skin by the midnight rain,

Pleasant dreams may thy slumber crown,

As thou sinkest to rest amid silk and down :

But shame beside thy pillow stand !

A German maid shall kiss thee not,

A German song rejoice thee not,

And German wine shall warm thee not !

He who has strength to wield a brand,

Let him draw it now for his father-land !

When our trumpets like thunder in heaven resound,

Thou may'st be lulled to the lute's languid sound ;

When we ask in the hot noon for water in vain,

Thou may'st be pouring the sparkling champagne :

But shame thy sunny cup shall brand !

A German maid shall kiss thee not,

A German song rejoice thee not,

And German wine shall warm thee not !

He who has strength to wield a brand,

Let him draw it now for his father-land !

While we, when the shouts of the battle swell,

Think of our loved one's last farewell,

Thou, with thy worthless gold, may'st try

To win what gold may never buy.

Shame on the sordid love thou hast planned !

A German maid shall kiss thee not,

A German song rejoice thee not,

And German wine shall warm thee not !

He who has strength to wield a brand,

Let him draw it now for his father-land !

When the lances are shivering, and the balls are flying,

And the dead are strewn beside the dying ;

When the sight is true, and the blow is hard,

Thou may'st he watching the turn of a card.

But shame such coward game has planned !

A German maid shall kiss thee not,

A German song rejoice thee not,

And German wine shall warm thee not !

He who has strength to wield a brand,

Let him draw it now for his father-land !

Breathe we in battle our latest breath,

Welcome the soldier's comrade — Death !

But thou, 'neath thy silken coverlid creeping,

Shalt tremble lest Death approach thee sleeping,

Thou shalt die a pale, dishonoured slave !

No German maid shall weep thy grave,

No German song shall sing thy fame,

No German cup shall pledge thy name !

He who has strength to wield a brand,

Let him draw it now for his father-land !

* Literally, “ Fie upon thee, boy, in the oven”

The Literary Gazette, 3rd January 1835

[I can scarcely call the above translation — they are only an attempt to versify some literal prose versions; and I frankly confess I despair of communicating my own enjoyments to my readers. ]

GENIUS

Lines suggested by a View of the Sculpture designed by Mr. Lough, and described in last week's Literary Gazette.

Glory of earth, and light from heaven,

Young Genius ! but for thee,

And the wild wonders to thee given,

How base our earth would be !

Bright halls, where meet the vain and cold,

The idle and the gay,

With feelings cast in one set mould —

Do they redeem our clay ?

The mart, where for gold's sordid sake

The trader sears his heart —

Is there aught of the things that make

Our nature's nobler part ?

Or in the hind who duly plies

Each day's accustomed beat ;

As very dust as that which lies

Unconscious at his feet ?

Or in those higher ranks that know

No world of inward thought,

As vapid as their outward show,—

Vanity vainly bought ?

And yet this world is animate

With the fine spirit sent,

Vivid as Hope, and strong as Fate,—

Mind's purer element.

Like mountains with one golden vein

Of rich ore running through ;

Like that ore asking but the pain

Of being brought to view.

Such is mankind, and such the store

That dwells within his mind ;

Or rather, some there are whose ore

Is wealth for half their kind.

Young Sculptor ! whose creative hand

Has waked these thoughts in me.

While thine own works around thee stand.

How proud thy soul must be !

The red fire kindling without touch ;

The fountain's sudden birth ;

So, Genius, dost thou rise, and such

Thy likenesses on earth.

The youth I speak of, is he not

Touch'd with thy fire by thee ?

Has not thy guidance cast his lot,

His mind, his destiny ?

Strange interest must it be to know

How it within him work'd ;

What chance ray caused the leaves to blow.

Whose germs within him lurk’d.

Was it beside some summer stream,

That came that haunted hour

The forms that haunt enthusiast dream,

Of grace and depth and power ;

And bade him mould them for his own,

Till both grew half divine ?

Young master of the breathing stone,

It recks not, — they are thine !

Art thou not bound to that fair shore

Where art's great wonders be ?

What miser's wealth to thee the store

Of classic Italy !

And worship there her gifted band,

Till thou again shalt come,

With practised eye, and perfect hand,

To England, fame, and home.

The Literary Gazette, 19th May 1827

GIFTS FOR THE PAST

The past — now what shall we give the past ?

Oh, give it tears.

For the sorrows that heavily shadows cast

O'er our early years :

For friends that are friends to us no more,

For the grief behind, and the gloom before :

For love that is weeping beside the grave,

It will perish by those whom it could not save—

Long may it mourn over those beneath,

Lingering a life that is worse than death ;

For brief is the reign of the sunny hour,

Long is that of the shade, and the shower :

For pleasures in which we no more take part,

For weariness lying like frost on the heart,

For an earth worn out— a sky o'ercast,

The past — now what shall we give the past ?

Oh, give it tears.

The past — now what shall we give the past?

Oh, give it smiles.

For falsehood, which, ending in truth at last,

No more beguiles :

For the pleasures from which we turn aside,

For the friends whose flattery we now deride—

They came to our side in the leaf and the flower,

They all fell off in the winter hour :

For hopes that are colourless now and dead,

Down at our feet in the dust that we tread ;

And we marvel that ever we lighted our way

With hues so painted and false as they :

For all the deceits we have seen depart,

For the scorn which fills and hardens the heart,

For the knowledge so harshly acquired at last,

The past — now what shall we give the past ?

Oh, give it smiles.

The past — now what shall we give the past ?

Forgetfulness.

Oh, for some blessedness veil to cast

O'er the thoughts which press

The heavy heart, wearied and worn,

With all it bears, and all it has borne.

We will think no more of the friends of our youth ;

Folly that ever we trusted their truth !

Perish the hopes that never again

Can soothe or solace — delude or sustain.

Think no more of the love which is fled

Afar with the faithless, or deep with the dead.

All that has ever beguiled or betray'd,

Mute be its memory, deep be its shade.

For all the flowers it to earth has cast,

The past — Oh ! what shall we give the past ?

Forgetfulness.

From the Edinburgh Literary Journal, 24th December 1831

“ A turban girds her brow, white as the sea-foam,

Whence, all untrammelled, her dark thin hair

Streams fitfully upon her storm-beat front;

Her eye at rest, pale fire in its black orb

Innocuous sleeps — but, roused, Jove's thunder-cloud

Enkindles not so fiercely." — Duke of Mantua.

" This was the Sybil."

THE GIPSY'S PROPHECY.

Ladye, throw back thy raven hair,

Lay thy white brow in the moonlight bare,

I will look on the stars, and look on thee,

And read the page of thy destiny.

Little thanks shall I have for my tale, —

Even in youth thy cheek will be pale ;

By thy side is a red rose tree, —

One lone rose droops withered, so thou wilt be.

Round thy neck is a ruby chain,

One of the rubies is broken in twain ;

Throw on the ground each shattered part,

Broken and lost, they will be like thy heart.

Mark yon star, — it shone at thy birth ;

Look again, — it has fallen to earth,

Its glory has pass'd like a thought away, —

So, or yet sooner, wilt thou decay.

Over yon fountain's silver fall

Is a moonlight rainbow's coronal ;

Its hues of light will melt in tears, —

Well may they image thy future years.

I may not read in thy hazel eyes,

For the long dark lash that over them lies ;

So in my art I can but see

One shadow of night on thy destiny.

I can give thee but dark revealings

Of passionate hopes and wasted feelings,

Of love that past like the lava wave,

Of a broken heart and an early grave !

The Literary Gazette, 11th October 1823

LANDSCAPES

- - - - And must

Such Ioveliness as this be unto me

But as a dream ?

THE GLEN

It was a little glen— a solitude —

By Nature fashioned in her gayer mood :

There was so much of sunshine in its shade ;

Such pleasant music from the brook, that made

Its way o'er pebbles, shining white, like pearls

Amid some royal maiden's raven curls.

It had no distant prospect : The blue sky

Closed like a dome o'er the sweet sanctuary ;

And forest trees, like pillars, girt it round,

Whose branches, summer tapestry, swept the ground;

And then there was a little open space,

Enough to mirror on the water's face

A glimpse of the bright heaven. Upon its banks

Grew the sweet thousands of the harebell's ranks,

Amid white daisies, that, like light and air

And hope and love, are common every where ;

And like a couch spread the voluptuous heath,

Scenting the air with its Arabian breath.

And all was silence. — save when the wild bees,

Intoxicate with their noon revelries,

Murmuring, kiss'd the blossoms where they lay ;

Or when the breeze bore a green leaf away;

Or when the flutter of the cusha's wing (sic)

Echoed its song of plaintive languishing —

The music of complaint it filled the grove,

A mingled tone of sorrow and of love.

On one side of the brook a willow tree

Grew droopingly, as if foredoomed to be

For aye a mourner,— as but made to wave

A sign and shadow o'er some maiden's grave,

Who with some deep and inward secret pined,

Till the pale beauty of her youth declined ;

And still her secret with her life was kept,

Till both together in the dark grave slept—

And then they said 'twas love. But in this spot,

Whence care departed, and where grief came not,

It drooped, but not in grief, but as it meant

To kiss the ripples over which it bent.

’Twas just a nook for happy love to dream

O'er all the many joys and hopes that seem

To its fond vision like the bursting flowers,

Whose opening only waits the summer hours ;

And yet, with all it breathes and blooms of June,

Not this the spot that I would seek at noon —

It has too much of happiness.

The Literary Gazette, 4th October 1824