Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L E L)
Poems published in periodicals, primarily in The Literary Gazette - 7
MEDALLION WAFERS.
UNKNOWN FEMALE HEAD
I know not of thy history, thou sad
Yet beautiful faced Girl : — the chesnut braid
Bound darkly round thy forehead, the blue veins
Wandering in azure light, the ivory chin
Dimpled so archly, have no characters
Graven by memory; but thy pale cheek,
Like a white rose on which the sun hath looked
Too wildly warm, (is not this passion's legend ? )
The drooping lid whose lash is bright with tears,
A lip which has the sweetness of a smile
But not its gaiety — do not these bear
The searched footprints sorrow leaves in passing
O'er the clear brow of youth ?— It may but be
An idle thought, but I have dreamed thou wert
A captive in thy hopelessness: afar
From the sweet home of thy young infancy,
Whose image unto thee is as a dream
Of fire and slaughter, I can see thee wasting,
Sick for thy native air, loathing the light
And cheerfulness of men ; thyself the last
Of all thy house, a stranger and a slave !
The Literary Gazette, 8th February 1823
[UNTITLED]
The bee, when varying flowers are nigh,
On many a sweet will careless dwell ;
Just sips their dew, and then will fly
Again to its own fragrant cell :—
Thus tho’ my heart, by fancy led,
A wanderer for a while may be,
Yet soon returning whence it fled,
It comes more fondly back to thee.
The Literary Gazette, 21st October 1820
[UNTITLED]
Farewell ! for I have schooled my heart
At last to say farewell to thee !
Now I can bear to look on death, —
Its bitterness is past for me.
There was a time I should have wept
To look upon my altered brow —
The lip, whence red and smile are fled —
But I am glad to see them now !
The faded brow, the pallid lip,
Proclaim what soon my fate will be ;
And welcome is their tale of death,
For I have said farewell to thee !
When first we met, I saw thee all
A girl's imagining could feign ;
I did not dream of loving thee,
Still less of being loved again.
I felt it not, till round my heart
Link after link the chain was wove ;
Then burst at once upon my brain
The maddening thought— I love! I love!
We then were parting, others wept,
But I let not one teardrop fall ;
And when each kind Farewell was said,
Mine was the coldest of them all.
But mine the ear that strained to hear
Thy latest step ; and mine the eye
That watched thy distant shape, when none
But me its shadow could descry.
And when the circle in its mirth
Had quite forgot Farewell and Thee,
I went to my own room, and wept
The tears I would not let thee see.
And time pass'd on ; but not with time
Did thoughts of thee and thine depart ;
The lesson of forgetfulness
Was what I could not teach my heart.
We met again, and woman's pride
Nerved me to what I had to bear ;
I would not, tho' my heart had broke,
Have let thee find thine image there.
I felt thine eyes gazing on mine ;
I felt my hand within thine hold;
I heard my name breathed by thy voice,
And I was calm, and I was cold.
And then I heard you had a bride —
I know not how, I know not when—
For, still my brain swims round to think
Of all, all that I suffered then !
I knew the day, the very hour,
That you were wed, and heard your vow ;
I heard the wedding bells— oh, GOD!
Mine ear rings with them even now!
I may not say that you were false,
I never had one vow from thee ;
But I have often seen thine eye
Look as it loved to look on me.
And when you spoke to me, your voice
Would always take a softer tone ;
And surely that last night your cheek
Was almost pallid as my own.
But this is worse than vain Farewell !
Of Heaven now I only crave
For thee all of life's happiness,
And for myself an early grave !
The Literary Gazette, 1sy May 1824
[UNTITLED]
I did love once,--
Loved as youth--woman--Genius loves; though now
My heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wear
That falsest of false things--a mask of smiles;
Yet every pulse throbs at the memory
Of that which has been! Love is like the glass,
That throws its own rich colour over all,
And makes all beautiful. The morning looks
Its very loveliest, when the fresh air
Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red;
And the hot noon flits by most rapidly,
When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page
Bearing the poet's words of love:--and then
The twilight walk, when the linked arms can feel
The beating of the heart; upon the air
There is a music never heard but once,--
A light the eyes can never see again;
Each star has its own prophecy of hope,
And every song and tale that breathe of love
Seem echoes of the heart.
The New York Literary Gazette, 1826
Quoted from 'The Improvisatrice'
[UNTITLED]
It is a lovely lake, with waves as blue
As e'er were lighted by the morning ray
To topaz— crowded with an hundred isles,
Each named from some peculiar flower it bears :
There is the Isle of Violets, whose leaves,
Thick in their azure beauty, fill the air
With most voluptuous breathings ; the Primrose
Gives name to one: the Lilies of the Valley,
Like wreath'd pearls, to another ; Cowslips glow,
Ringing with golden bells the fragrant peal
Which the bees love so, in a fourth. How sweet
Upon a summer evening, when the lake
Lies half in shadow, half in crimson light,
Like hope and fear holding within the heart
Divided empire, with a light slack sail
To steer your little boat amid the isles,
Now gazing in the clouds like fiery halls.
Till head and eye are filled with gorgeous thoughts
Of golden palaces in fairyland;
Or, looking through the clear, yet purple wave,
See the white pebbles, shining like the hearts
Pure and bright even in this darksome world :
There is one gloomy isle, quite overgrown
With weeping willows, green, yet pensively
Sweep the long branches down to the tall grass;
And in the very middle of the place
There stands a large old yew— beneath its shade
I would my grave might lie : the tremulous light.
Breaking at intervals through the sad boughs,
Yet without power to warm the ground below,
Would be so like the mockery of hope.
No flowers grow there— they would not suit my tomb :
It should be only strewed with withered leaves ;
And on a willow, near, my harp might hang,
Forgotten and forsaken, yet at times
Sending sweet music o'er the lake.
The Literary Gazette, 27th March 1824
[UNTITLED]
The moon is on the silent lake
I loved so much of yore —
And, as in other days, I stand
Beside its willowed shore.
It is not changed : — the quiet wave
Glides in its beauty on ;
And not a bud, and not a leaf.
Seems from the green tree gone.
Like fairy barks those lilies spread
Their white wings to the air ;
Those flowers, so lovely and so frail,
Still are they floating there.
It cannot be that years have past
Since last I saw the place —
For years bring change, and here is not
Of any change a trace.
I'll fling me down on yon green bank,
And dream my dreams of old —
Drink Hope's Pactolus-draughts again
From starry waves of gold.
O no ! O no ! my heart's awake —
I cannot sleep again ;
I know Hope's golden sands are dross—
I know Life's dreams are vain.
I would there were some sign of change
Upon the scene around:
'Tis sad to think in mine own heart
Alone that change is found.
Like birds and winds that pass away,
Our hopes and joys depart ;
And Nature has no desert place
Like the lorn human heart.
For there are thousand flowers that rise
Fair from their winter tomb ;
But Hopes are annuals that know
No second spring of bloom.
The Literary Gazette, 29th April 1826
[UNTITLED]
OH it is long since we have met !
And longer it will be,
Ere I will cross the waters wild,
And all for love of thee.
It is not that I hope to find
A fairer face than thine —
However fair in other eyes.
None will seem fair in mine.
It is not that I hope to find
Another love for me —
It is to say farewell to love
To say farewell to thee.
I will go forth in the wide world,
And in the tumult there,
I may drown, though I may not cure,
My spirit's secret care.
Now for the battle and the storm —
And when this may not be,
Then for the red-wine cup that crowns
The midnight revelry.
And if in future years a cloud
Shade my now brightening name,
'Tis the strife of a wounded heart —
And on thee be the blame !
For thou hast turn'd to bitterness
Thoughts that in love had birth ;
There is no truth in that or thee —
There is no truth on earth !
I am too proud to sigh or kneel
At any woman's shrine :—
But 'tis beneath the lofty hill
That sweeps the lava mine.
I have past through a weary life —
Found it harsh, base, untrue ;
But linger'd yet one angel hope —
The hope that dwelt with you.
And I have lived to find that hope,
Like other hopes, was vain ;
And love and hope henceforth are things
I cannot feel again.
Oh it is long since last we met !
And longer it will be —
For never will I cross the waves
Again for love of thee !
The Literary Gazette, 20th May 1826
[UNTITLED] ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT
Our sky has lost another star,
The earth has claimed its own,
And into dread eternity
A glorious one is gone.
He who could give departed things
So much of light and breath,
He is himself now with the past —
Gone forth from life to death.
It is a most unblessed grave
That has no mourner near ;
The meanest turf the wild flowers hide
Has some familiar tear:
But kindred sorrow is forgot
Amid the general gloom ;
Grief is religion felt for him
Whose temple is his tomb.
Thou of the future and the past,
How shall we honour thee ?
Shall we build up a pyramid
Amid the pathless sea ?
Shall we bring red gold from the east,
And marble from the west,
And carved porphyry, that the fane
Be worthy of its guest ?
Or shall we seek thy native land,
And choose some ancient hill,
To be thy statue, finely wrought
With all the sculptor's skill ?
Methinks, as there are common signs
To every common wo,
That we should do some mighty thing
To mark who lies below.
But this is folly : thou needst not
The sculpture or the shrine ;
The heart is the sole monument
For memories like thine.
The pyramids in Egypt rose
To mark some monarch's fame :
Imperishable is the tomb,
But what the founder's name ?
Small need for tribute unto thee,
To let the fancy roam —
To thee, who hast by many a hearth
An altar and a home :
Each little bookshelf where thy works
Are carefully enshrined,
There is thy trophy, there is left
Thy heritage of mind.
How many such delightful hours
Rise on our saddened mood,
When we have owed to thee and thine
The charm of solitude !
How eagerly we caught the book !
How earnestly we read !
How actual seemed the living scenes
Thy vivid colours spread !
And not to one dominion bound
Has been thy varied power ;
In many a distant scene enjoyed—
In many a distant hour,
In childhood turning from its play,
In manhood, youth, and age.
All bent beneath the enchanter's wand,
All owned that spell — thy page.
Read by the glimmering firelight,
In the greenwood alone,
Amid the gathered circle — who
But hath thy magic known ?
Laid in the cottage window-seat,
Fanned by the open air,
Left by the palette and the desk,
Thou hast thy readers there.
Actual as friends we know and love,
The beings of thy mind
Are, like events of real life,
In memory enshrined :
We seem as if we heard their voice,
As if we knew their face —
Familiar with their inward thoughts,
Their beauty and their grace.
As if bound on a pilgrimage,
We visit now thy shore,
Haunted by all which thou hast gleaned
From the old days of yore :
We feel in every hill and heath
Romance which thou hast flung ;
We say, 'Twas here the poet dwelt,
'Twas there of which he sung.
Remembering thee, we half forget
How vainly this is said ;
There seemed so much of life in thee,
We cannot think thee dead.
Dead ? dead ? when there is on this earth
Such waste of worthless breath ;
There should have gone a thousand lives
To ransom thee from death !
Now out on it ! to hear them speak
Their idle words and vain,
As if it were a common loss
For nature to sustain.
It is an awful vacancy
A great man leaves behind.
And solemnly should sorrow fall
Upon bereaved mankind.
We have too little gratitude
Within the selfish heart,
Else with what anguish should we see
The great and good depart !
Methinks our dark and sinful earth
Might dread an evil day,
When Heaven, in pity or in wrath,
Calls its beloved away.
A fear and awe are on my soul,
To look upon the tomb,
And think of who are sleeping laid
Within its midnight gloom.
What glorious ones are gone ! — thus light
Doth vanish from our spheres :
Out on the vanity of words !
Peace now, for thoughts and tears !
The Literary Gazette, 29th Septmber 1832
VALEDICTORY LINES
To a Cadet on embarking for India
Young Soldier ! are not thy hopes
Light as the birds of the spring,
When their flight is amid new flowers,
Whose fragrance buoys up their wing ?
Sweet will be the voice of their singing,
For awhile their flight will be gay ;
But the flowers around them are falling,
And as those blossoms pass, so will they.
Yet sometimes one bird survives,
And one flower lives sweetly on,
Saved from the storm and the snare,
While the rest of their race are gone.
And such, young Soldier, I trust
Is what thy fate will be ;
That the God which saved the flower and bird
Will watch in his care o'er thee !
Thou hast that which availeth thee much :
Pure prayers of the holiest love ;
The sigh of thy Mother, her midnight sigh,
Cannot be unheard above.
Be thy pathway such as shall flush
The cheek of thy Father with pride;
Be thy step the first in the ranks,
Where the brave fight side by side.
Be thy sweet home-thoughts a spell
To keep thy heart as a taintless shrine,
That never the sullying love of gold
May darken a spirit like thine.
Farewell ! be thy doom as bright
As the bright land where thou wilt roam ;
Thy colours be hope and success,—
Thy motto be, Love and my home.
The Literary Gazette, 28th June 1823
VALEDICTORY STANZAS
Oh not that look to me, my love,
Oh not that look to me ;
Cold looks I may from others bear,
But never one from thee !
I cannot bear that alter'd brow,
That wandering smile of thine,
To see it fix on others' eyes,
On any but on mine.
I meet thee in the glittering crowd —
We meet as strangers do ;
The pang that rives my inmost soul
Is all unmarked by you.
Last night we met as now we meet,
A gorgeous throng were nigh, —
I heard you scoff at constant love,
Then sternly pass me by.
It is enough !— I do resign
My claim on love and thee ;
I will forsake the hope that long
Has fed on memory.
Then look not so, I will forget
What once those fond eyes said ;
The dead will soon forget— and I
Shall soon be with the dead !
The Literary Gazette, 10th May 1823
VALEDICTORY STANZAS
Thy voice is yet upon mine ear,
I cannot lose the tone,
Altho' I know what vanity
Has made my heart its own ;
For well I know I cannot be
All thou hast made thyself to me.
I flung me on my couch, to sleep,
But there no slumber came :
I caught a sound, then blush'd to think
I nam’d aloud thy name :
How could I let one breath of air
The secret of my heart declare !
That is the only blush, whose red
Has lit my cheek for thee;
And even that blush had not burnt,
Had there been one to see.
Oh, never might my spirit brook
Another on its depths to look !
I hear thee nam'd by those who keep
Thy image in their heart ;
I envy them, that they may say
How very dear thou art.
And yet, methinks, Love may not be
Kept better than in secresy.
I blush not when I hear thy name ;
I sigh not for thy sake;
And tho' my heart may break, yet still
It shall in silence break.
I have, at least, enough of pride,
If not to heal, mу wound to hide.
'T is strange, how in things most remote
Love will some likeness find ;
It is as an electric chain
Were flung upon the mind—
Making each pulse in unison,
Till they but thrill and throb as one.
I fly myself, as crowds could steal
The arrow from my heart ;
But there ten thousand things recall
Scenes in which thou hadst part.
In crowds alone it was we met :
How can they teach me to forget?
Wearied, I turn to solitude;
But all the dreams are gone,
Which once upon my quiet hours
Like fairy pageants shone :
I feel too vividly, to be
Longer amused by phantasy.
I look upon the poet's page,
My tear-fill'd eye grows dim ;
I heard him once their numbers breathe,
And now they breathe of him.
Less present to mine eye than ear,
His silver voice is all I hear.
Farewell! go join the careless world,
As gay, as cold, as free ;
A passing dream, a moment's thought,
Is all that I would be.
I wish — but that brief glance allow'd,
We fling upon an evening cloud.
I would not be beloved by thee ;
I know too well the fate
That waits upon the heart, which must
Its destiny create.
A spirit, passionate as mine,
Lights only to consume its shrine.
I was not born for happiness ;
From my most early hours
My hopes have been too brilliant fires,
My joys too fragile flow’rs.
An evil star shines over me ;
I would not it were felt by thee !
Farewell! Yet wherefore say farewell?
Mine are no parting words:
I do not wish to wake one tone
Upon thy memory's chords.
Low, still and deep as mine, can be
Content with its idolatry.
The Literary Gazette, 22nd January 1825
POETICAL CATALOGUE OF PICTURES
VANDYKE CONSULTING HIS MISTRESS ON A PICTURE IN COOKE'S EXHIBITION
Beautiful Art ! my worship is for thee —
The heart's entire devotion. When I look
Upon thy radiant wonders, every pulse
Is thrill'd as in the presence of divinity.
Pictures, bright pictures, oh ! they are to me
A world for thought to revel in. I love
To give a history to every face, to think —
As I thought with the painter — as I knew
What his high communing had been.
Yes, he is seeking in those eyes
His light, his fame, his own heart prize !
How vain to that idolater
Is this world's praise, if wanting her
Sweet seal, a smile. His lofty brow
Has almost woman's softness now;
And that dark cheek, and darker eye
Where lightning-gleams of genius lie,
And that so haughty lip's proud curl,
Are mild before that fair young girl,
As if that delicate slight hand
Had magic like a fairy wand,
As if those deep blue eyes had power
Like sunshine in a stormy hour.
It was an almost childish face,
Yet in its first soft spring of grace —
A rosebud, ere the sun has set
Which saw it bloom ; a violet,
Or ere the tears of morning melt —
The first dew-fall it ever felt.
Yet was it pale, as with excess
Of overmuch fond tenderness.
Her mouth — a very mine of bliss,
A blossom fresh from the bee's kiss, —
Was near to his, as if to steal
But one breath from him was to feel
The air of paradise ; — her arm
Was round his neck ; — and oh the charm
Of the delicious drooping lid
Which half her soft eye's lustre hid !
Ah, Woman has no look so sweet
As that, when, half afraid to meet
The look she loves, blushes betray
All the suppressed glance would say.
'Tis a sweet picture ! But what shade
Would not be lovely, which pourtrayed
Genius and love, the union bright
Of meteor-flash and soft moonlight ?
The Literary Gazette, 15th March 1823
VAUCLUSE
Tall rocks begirt the lovely valley round,
Like barriers guarding its sweet loneliness;
Clouds rested on their summits, and their sides
Darken‘d with aged woods, where ivy twined
And green moss grew unconscious of the sun :
Rushing in fury from a gloomy cave,
Black like the dwelling place of Death and Night,
An angry river came; at first it traced
Its course in wrath, and the dark cavern rang
With echoes to its hoarse and sullen roar ;
But when it reach’d the peaceful valley, then,
Like woman’s smile soothing wild rage away,
The sunlight fell upon its troubled waves—
It made the waters, like a curbed steed,
Chafed and foamed angrily, but softly flowed,
A bright unbroken mirror, for the kiss
Of the fair children of its fragrant banks,
And close beside uprose the tree whose form
Had once been beauty's refuge—sacred shade !
Which even the lightning dares not violate,
The hero's trophy and the bard's reward—
The faded laurel.—
Vaucluse ! thou hast a melancholy charm,
A sweet remembrance of departed time,
When love awoke the lyre from its long sleep,
Unbound the golden wings of poetry,
And in thy groves the graceful Petrarch sought
A shelter where his soul might wander free,
Dwelling on tender thoughts and minstrel dreams,
All that the bard can feel in solitude.
Thy name is in his songs, and it will be
Remembered, when thy woods shall wave no more.
The Literary Gazette, 21st October 1820
THE WANDERER
Float on, float on, thou lonely bark,
Across the weary brine ;
I know not why I load thee with
Such cheerless freight as mine.
I know not why I wander forth,
Nor what I wish to see ;
For Hope, the child of Morn and Mist,
Has long been veiled from me.
Little reck I for ruined towers—
They may be very fair—
Let poet or let painter rave,
I see but ruin there.
I think upon the waste above,
And on the dead below ;
I see but human vanity—
I see but human wo.
And cities in their hour of pomp,
The peopled and the proud—
What are they ? mighty sepulchres
To gulf a wretched crowd :
Where wealth and want are both secured
Each one the worst to bear ;
Where every heart and house are barred
With the same sordid care.
And fairer scenes—the vine-wreathed hill
A gold and ruby mine,
Grapes, nature's jewels, richly wrought
Around the autumn's shrine ;
The corn-fields' fairy armory,
Where every lance is gold,
And poppies fling upon the wind
Their banner's crimson gold :
The moon, sweet shadow of the sun,
On the lake's tranquil breast,—
Too much these gentle scenes contrast
My spirit's own unrest.
And I must be what I have been,
And not what I am now,
Ere these could call a smile, or chase
One shadow from my brow.
I must lay in some nameless sea
The ghosts of hopes long fled ;
Efface dark memory's scroll, and leave
A shining page instead.
I must forget youth's bloom is fled,
Ere its own measured hours ;
I must forget that summer dies,
Even amid its flowers.
And give me more than pleasure's task
Belief that they can be ;
Then every spreading sail were slow
To bear me on the sea.
But now I care not for their course ;
Wherever I may roam,
I bear about the weariness
That haunted me at home.
I may see all around me changed,
Beneath a foreign sky ;
I may fly scenes, and friends, and foes—
Myself I cannot fly.
The Literary Gazette, 29th December 1827
WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN!
We might have been !— these are but common words,
And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing;
They are the echo of those finer chords,
Whose music life deplores when unavailing.
We might have been !
We might have been so happy ! says the child,
Pent in the weary school-room during summer,
When the green rushes 'mid the marshes wild,
And rosy fruits, attend the radiant comer.
We might have been !
It is the thought that darkens on our youth,
When first experience — sad experience — teaches
What fallacies we have believed for truth,
And what few truths endeavour ever reaches.
We might have been !
Alas ! how different from what we are
Had we but known the bitter path before us ;
But feelings, hopes, and fancies left afar,
What in the wide bleak world can e'er restore us ?
We might have been !
It is the motto of all human things,
The end of all that waits on mortal seeking ;
The weary weight upon Hope's flagging wings,
It is the cry of the worn heart while breaking.
We might have been !
And when, warm with the heaven that gave it birth,
Dawns on our world-worn way Love's hour Elysian,
The last fair angel lingering on our earth,
The shadow of what thought obscures the vision.
We might have been !
A cold fatality attends on love,
Too soon or else too late the heart-beat quickens ;
The star which is our fate springs up above,
And we but say — while round the vapour thickens —
We might have been !
Life knoweth no like misery ; the rest
Are single sorrows, — but in this are blended
All sweet emotions that disturb the breast ;
The light that was our loveliest is ended.
We might have been !
Henceforth, how much of the full heart must be
A seal'd book at whose contents we tremble ?
A still voice mutters 'mid our misery,
The worst to hear, because it must dissemble —
We might have been !
Life is made up of miserable hours,
And all of which we craved a brief possessing,
For which we wasted wishes, hopes, and powers,
Comes with some fatal drawback on the blessing.
We might have been !
The future never renders to the past
The young beliefs intrusted to its keeping ;
Inscribe one sentence — life's first truth and last —
On the pale marble where our dust is sleeping —
We might have been.
From
THREE EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A WEEK.
New Monthly Magazine, 1837
THE WHITE SHIP
" Strike the sails again, and drop
Your anchor by the shore ;
Our purple cup has yet to make
A few glad circles more.
Fair sister, seat thee by my side—
Another health to thee :
Yon sky shall lose its rival blush,
Ere we pass o'er the sea.
I call on thee, thou minstrel young,
To praise the ruby tide :"
Thus spoke the young Prince Henry,
And soon the song replied :—
SONG.
Deep, deep, drain the cup,
Or leave its wealth untasted—
Deep, deep, drain the cup,
Or its best gift is wasted.
Drink not of the purple wine
For a moment's gladness —
Flashing wit and careless laugh
Are but transient madness ;—
There's sparkling light floats on the bowl,
There's flashing mirth within it :
But its deep forgetfulness
Is the best spell in it.
Drain the red wine till it be
Lethe to life's sorrow ;
'Tis something to forget to-day
That there must come to-morrow.
'Twas sad ; for aye have lute and bard
Held prophecy of tone ;
But, like the shadow of a bird,
Soon was the sadness flown.
And redder, redder grew the sky,
And redder grew the brine
The lighter rose the laugh and song,
The gayer past the wine.
'Twas like a court of fairy land,
Held by the silver main —
The young prince, and his sister fair,
Their gay and gallant train.
The first star is upon the east,
The last upon the west,
And both are, but one tinge more pale,
Mirror'd on ocean's breast.
No cloud is on the face of heaven,
No ruffle on the deep,
And there is but such gentle wind
As o'er the lute might sweep.
The last wine-cup is drained, and now,
Fair ship, they crowd to thee.
Ah ! these are but unsteady hands
To guide thee o'er the sea.
But still it was a gallant sight
To see her breast the tide ;
The queen-like countess on the deck,
The royal youth beside :
And all was bright, as the White Ship
Cut through the sparkling spray ;
Though still her shadow, omen like,
Dark on the waters lay.
One long, wild shriek — that hidden rock !
The ship has perished there:—
" Back with you all, out with the boat,
Save England's royal heir."
" Pause, on your lives !" Back sprung the prince
Upon the shattered deck :
"My sister ! " Safely in his arms
He bore her from the wreck.
Cold, pale, the morning slowly broke ;
Upheld upon the mast,
Two, only two, remained to tell
What in that night had past.
The one was master of that ship,
That fair ship nothing now —
O never more he'll set her sails,
Or guide her stately prow !
He thought but of his royal freight :
" Is he among the dead ?"
" I saw," the other said, " the wave
Close o'er Prince Henry's head."
" And who shall to our native shore
The dismal tidings bear ;
And tell the king he has no son,
The throne it has no heir ?"
" Not I, not I, my noble prince,
At least I'll share thy grave :"
The master loosed his hold and plunged
Beneath the fated wave.
Wo was in merry England,
A deep and lasting wo —
A father wept above the sea,
His children slept below.
The Literary Gazette, 30th June 1827
WILLOW LEAVES
Translation of Les Feuilles de Saule. Par Mde. Aimable Tastu.
Un jour je m’étais amusé à effeuiller une branche de saule sur un ruisseau, et à attacher une idée à chaque feuille, que le courant entrainait."— Chateaubriand.
The hour was fair, but Autumn's dying
Was upon leaf, and flower, and tree ;
The sunshine with the season flying,
As I could feel my life from me.
Beside an aged trunk reclining,
All other darker days forgot,
The leaves fell, and the waves went pining,
Lost in my dreams, I marked them not.
From the old willow o'er me bending,
My hand, unconscious, stripp'd a bough,
Then watch'd I the light leaves descending,
Borne on by the blue current's flow.
Idlesse it hath the vaguest dreaming,—
From their course sought I to divine ;
And mid those o'er the waters streaming
Chose I one for my fortune's sign.
Skiff-like it flow'd with peace before it,
Till choice of mine upon it fell,—
Then rudely prest the wild waves o'er it—
It sank : I chose mine emblem well !
Another leaf ! to some hope clinging,
A miracle might guard its way ;
‘Twas my lute's fate — the wind past, flinging
My oracle, my hope away.
To the wave where my fortunes leave me
My genius passes with the gale :
Shall I trust to it, to bereave me
Of dearer vow ? — my spirits fail.
E’en while at its own weakness blushing,
My sick heart sinks beneath its fear ;
That heart is weak, and dark clouds rushing,
Are all its omens bid appear.
Down from my hand the green bough falling,
I leave the willow and the stream ;
Yet still their omens drear recalling,
Those prophet leaves haunt midnight's dream.
The Literary Gazette, 27th January 1827
THE WISH
Oh, it is not on lip or brow
On which you may read change ;
But it is in the heart below
That much of new and strange
Lies hidden. Woe the hour betide
That ever they had aught to hide !
My step is in the lighted hall,
Roses are round my hair,
And my laugh rings as if of all
I were the gayest there ;
And tell me, if 'mid these around,
Lighter word or smile be found.
But come not on my solitude,
Mine after-hour of gloom,
When silent lip and sullen brow
Contrast the light and bloom,
Which seem'd a short while past to be
As if they were a part of me.
As the red wreaths that bind my hair
Are artificial flowers,
Made for, and only meant to wear -
When amid festal hours :
Just so the smiles that round me play
Are false, and flung aside, as they.
And when the reckless crowd among
I speak of one sweet art,
How lightly can I name the song,
Which yet has wrung my heart !
That lute and heart alike have chords
Not to be spoken of in words —
Or spoken but when the dew goes
On its sweet pilgrimage,
Or when its ray the moonbeam throws
Upon the lighted page,
On which the burning heart has pour'd
The treasures of its secret hoard.
These are the poet's hours ! oh ! these, —
Secret, and still, and deep —
The hot noon lull'd by singing bees
Or the blue midnight's sleep.
When odour, wind, and star, and flower
Are ruling, is the poet's hour.
But ill betide the time when he
Shall wish to hear his song
Borne from its own sweet secrecy
On words of praise along :
Alas for fame ! ' tis as the sun
That withers what it shines upon.
My lute is but a humble lute,
Yet o'er it have been thrown
Those laurel leaves, that well might suit
With one of loftier tone.
And yet is there one chord appears
Unwet with sad and secret tears ?
Are there not in yon midnight sky
Planets, whose ruling sway
From our birth shape our destiny; —
Some that with darkling ray
In one fix'd mournful aspect shine ?
Such natal star I feel is mine.
And once my horoscope was read, —
They said that I should have
A brightness o'er my pathway shed,
And then an early grave ;
Feelings worn with a sense their own,
As chords burst by their own sweet tone.
I have one wish, 'tis wild and vain.
Yet still that wish will be,
That I might rest in yon wide main.
My tomb the mighty sea;
As if at once my spirit went
To blend with the vast element.
One day I saw a grave just made,
How drear, how dark, how cold:
There when the coffin had been laid,
They trampled down the mould :
A week more 'twas a step and seat
For heartless rest, and careless feet.
Be my death-pillow, where the rock
Admits no mortal tread —
No carved epitaph to mock
The now unconscious dead ;
Or be my grave the billows deep,
Where the sun shines and the winds sweep.
The New Monthly Magazine, 1826
THE WITHERED FLOWERS
There is a white Vase in my hall,
The sweetest, the saddest, the dearest of all;
‘Tis a Grecian vase, and was brought by thee
From the shores of sunny Italy.
Well I remember the fanciful things
That floated in light imaginings,
Of the Nymph that was wont to bear
The showy urn on her raven hair
To a fountain near ; and then to shed
The fresh cool wave o'er some rose's head.
Its use is changed, tis now filled to the brim
With roses, whose colours are faded and dim —
With violet leaves, which have not a shade
Of the purple in which they were once arrayed.
Yet not a flower has faded there,
That graced not my bosom, or bound not my hair;
Every one was gathered by thee,
In the light of their April revelrie. —
Their blush is departed— yet feel how sweet,
As you lean o'er the vase, is the air that you meet !
And is not this Love, tho' the glories may fall
Of the light of his earlier coronal?
How sweet a memory lingers still,
Mid wreck and mid ruin, mid sorrow and ill !
Love's wings may pass, but still they fling
A scent from the flowers that bind each wing;
And I, tho' wronged and slighted, yet
Have been too happy to quite forget :—
I hang o'er my thoughts, as I hang o'er these flowers,
And think what they have been in summer hours.
Farewell to love, and farewell to thee —
But not farewell to your memory !
The Literary Gazette, 26th June 1824
THE WORLD AS IT IS
Farewell, farewell, and light farewell
Is all you'll have of mine —
So easily as I'm resign'd,
So easy I resign.
Why should I shed a single tear,
When none are shed for me ?
Or sigh amid a careless crowd,
Where sighs should never be ?
Why should I love ? a fair exchange
Is all my love will give :
As I am loved, 'tis fair for that
An equal love should live.
So, gay as any round your board,
I'll give you smile for smile ;
Though well I know that, taper-like,
I shine but for a while.
Great foolishness it were to weep,
That when I am not there,
Another takes my vacant place,
And weeds me from your care.
I do not dwell amid the days
Utopia may have known,
When that affection's dearest bands
Were round the absent thrown.
I hold our modern creed the best—
To its decree resigned,
I will confess, when out of sight
Best to be out of mind.
For what can Memory do but tell
How sweet the flowers were ;
And when they fade, it dims them more
To say they once were fair.
And what is Love ? — A weary spell
To double every ill —
To make our best of happiness
Be at another's will.
No ! careless laugh and mocking eye,
That know no charm like change,
These are the only wings wherewith
Through this slight world to range.
The Literary Gazette, 19th August 1826
THE WORSHIPPER
It was a shrine, a sunny shrine,
On it the Statue stood of Love ;
Thrice beautiful, as morning's dream
Had brought the image from above.
There many an hour would Beauty kneel
Adoring at the lovely shrine —
Haunting the Statue with one prayer —
" Would thou had'st life! would thou wert mine!"
Wearied, at length, the pitying heaven
No more the maiden's prayer denied;
Life darken'd in the Statue's eye,
And warm'd the veins life's crimson tide ;
Breath, mortal breath, was on the lip,
And Beauty caught it to her breast.
Alas ! the shape had changed to Grief —
Love ever does when once possess’d.
The Literary Gazette, 21st January 1826
FRAGMENTS IN RHYME XIII.
WRITTEN AFTER SEEING MAID MARION PERFORMED
Oh, for the days of the bow and the spear,
And the hawk and the hound and the good red deer !
I rather would dwell in the forest bower
Than in princely hall or in knightly tower,
Amid hearts as free as the shaft of their bow,
The tall oaks above, the soft grass below.
Oh, down and the purple canopy,
Are not worth the shade of the greenwood tree !
My Love would look well in the Lincoln green.
With his blade, and his bow, and his arrows keen ;
And the hazel glance of his falcon eye
The maiden would love, and the warrior fly.
I would ask no gems but the flowers of spring,
No music but what the birds could sing ;
And we'd lead a life like a fairy tale,
As free and as fresh and as light as the gale.
Oh, sweet and wild the hours would be
We past in the shade of the greenwood tree !
Oh, cities are all of smoke and care,
And gold is the curse that is laid on all there,
And feelings grow cold, and hearts lie dead,
And the fresh leaves of hope are withered !
But sweet is the cry when the wild buck bells,
And sweetly the horn of the hunter swells ;
And life is of love and of liberty,
When past in the shade of the greenwood tree !
The Literary Gazette, 4th January 1823
YOUTH
And herein have the green trees and the blossoming shrubs their advantage over us : the flower withers and the leaf falls, but the fertilising sap still lingers in their veins, and the following year bring again a spring of promise and a summer of beauty : but we, when our leaves and flowers perish, they perish utterly; we put forth no new hopes, we dream no new dreams. Why are we not wise enough, at least more preciously to retain their memory ?
OH ! the hours ! the happy hours
Of our other earlier time,
When the world was full of flowers,
And the sky a summer clime !
All life seem'd so lovely then ;
For it mirror'd our own heart :
Life is only joyful when
That joy of ourselves is part.
Fond delight and kind deceit
Are the gladness of the young—
For the bloom beneath our feet
Is what we ourselves have flung.
Then so many pleasures seem
Scatter'd o'er our onward way;
'Tis so difficult to deem
How their relish will decay.
What the heart now beats to win
Soon will be unloved, unsought :
Gradual is the change within,
But an utter change is wrought.
Time goes on, and time destroys
Not the joy, but our delight :
Do we now desire the toys
Which so charm'd our childhood's sight ?
Glory, poetry, and love,
Make youth beautiful, and pass
As the hues that shine above
Colour, but to quit, their glass.
But we soon grow calm and cold
As the grave to which we go ;
Fashion'd in one common mould,
Pulse and step alike are slow.
We have lost the buoyant foot —
We have lost the eager eye ;
All those inward chords are mute,
Once so eager to reply.
Is it not a constant sight—
Is it not most wretched too —
When we mark the weary plight
In which life is hurried through ?
Selfish, listless, Earth may wear
All her summer wealth in vain —
Though the stars be still as fair,
Yet we watch them not again.
Too much do we leave behind
Sympathy with lovely things ;
And the worn and worldly mind
Withers all life's fairy rings.
Glorious and beautiful
Were youth's feeling and youth's thought—
Would that we did not annul
All that in us then was wrought !
Would their influence could remain
When the hope and dream depart ;
Would we might through life retain
Still some youth within the heart !
The Literary Gazette, 11th August 1832
MEDALLION WAFERS
A YOUTH, WITH LYRE IN HIS HAND, kneeling to a Female half turning to him, as in the act of reconciliation
Yes ! I have sinned 'gainst love and thee ;
Both heart and harp have been untrue :
I cannot deem how they could he
Wakened by any one but you !
But my harp in the sunshine hung,
And I was proud to wake the strings,
And other hands than thine have flung
Flowers and laurel offerings.
Too dear I prised those flatteries,
And bowed me at an idol's shrine,
And breathed in vanity the sighs
Which should have been thine only thine.
I pray thee pardon, for the sake
Of my so long devoted strain ;
I pray thee pardon me, and take
Thy truant to thy heart again !
The Literary Gazette, 8th February 1823
SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES, 4TH SERIES I
THE ZEGRI LADY'S VIGIL
Ever sits the lady weeping —
Weeping night and day —
One perpetual vigil keeping,
Till life pass away,
And she join the seven who sleep.
Daylight enters not that building,
Tho' so rich and fair —
With the azure and the gilding
That are lavish'd there ;
Round the purple curtains sweep,
Heavily their shadows creep
Around the Zegri Ladye —
The Ladye weeping there.
On the walls are many a sentence,
In bright letters wrought —
Touch'd not with the meek repentance
By the Gospel brought—
But the Koran's haughty words —
Words that, like a trumpet calling,
Urge the warrior on ;
In the front of battle falling,
Paradise is won —
By the red and ready swords —
Can they soothe the spirit's chords
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye —
Of the Ladye weeping there !
Seven tombs are in that chamber —
Each a marble tomb : —
Lamps that breathe of musk and amber
Tremble in the gloom.
Seven lamps perfume the air.
On each tomb a statue lying,
Almost seems like life ;
And, above, the banner flying
Seems to dare the strife —
Which again it may not dare.
Can the carved statues there
Suffice the Zegri Ladye —
The Ladye weeping there.
While the others fled around them,
Did the seven die. —
In the front of war she found them
With none others nigh : —
Noble was the blood they shed.
Sacred in her grief and beauty,
Did the Ladye go? —
Asking life's last sacred duty
Of the Christian foe.
Those white feet were stain 'd with red,
When the King bestow'd her dead
On the lovely Zegri Ladye —
The Ladye weeping there.
Never since the hour she brought them
To that ancient hall:—
Since with her sad hands she wrought them
Their embroider'd pall,
Hath the daylight seen her face.
Rosy o'er the Guadalquivir
Doth the morning gleam ;
Pale the silver moonbeams shiver
O'er the haunted stream.
Nothing knows she of their grace —
Nothing cheers the funeral place
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye —
The Ladye weeping there.
Those six tombs contain a brother —
All her house's pride : —
Six contain her line ; one other
Riseth at her side.
Who is in that seventh tomb ?
One far dearer than the others
Shares their place of rest :
Well she loved her noble brothers —
But she loved him best —
He who shared the warrior's doom
With the favour at his plume
Of the lovely Zegri Ladye —
The Ladye weeping there.
Never more when first appearing
Will he watch her eye,
In the mounted lists careering,
When his steed went by
Rapid as the lance he flung.
Never more when night is lonely
Will the warrior glide
To the citron shade, where only
He was at her side,
While the very wild wind hung
On the music of the tongue
Of the lovely Zegri Ladye —
The Ladye weeping there.
Not with daylight to discover
How the wretched weep,
Will the maiden wail her lover
Or her brothers keep
In remembrance with her tears.
Grief hath stern and silent powers,
And her house is proud ;
Not to-day's cold guarded hours
Is despair allow'd ;
But, shut out with haughty fears,
Pride with daylight disappears,
From the lovely Zegri Ladye —
The Ladye weeping there.
But her slight frame has been shaken
By the sudden blight,
And her dark eyes are forsaken
By their former light ;
Heavy is their settled gloom.
And her wan cheek beareth token
Of young life's decline ;
You may see the heart is broken
By each outward sign.
Soon the heart can life consume,
Fast approaching is the tomb,
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye —
Of the Ladye weeping there.
The New Monthly Magazine, 1838
<<< In Literary Remains, this line is given as:
Each of six tombs hold a brother —