Landon in The Literary Gazette 1822

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Landon in The Literary Gazette 1822

Poems in The London Literary Gazette during the year 1822 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) the poet everyone is talking about compiled by Peter J. Bolton

Contents:

Song - Are other eyes beguiling, Love?

Literary Gazette, 5th January, 1822, Page 12

ORIGINAL POETRY.

SONG.

Are other eyes beguiling, Love? Are other rose-lips smiling, Love? Ah, heed them not; you will not find Lips more true, or eyes more kind, Than mine, Love.

Are other white arms wreathing, Love? Are other fond sighs breathing, Love? Ah, heed them not; but call to mind The arms, the sighs, you leave behind— All thine, Love.

Then gaze not on other eyes, Love; Breathe not other sighs, Love; You may find many a brighter one Than your own rose, but there are none So true to thee, Love.

All thine own, mid gladness, Love; Fonder still, mid sadness, Love; Tho’ changed from all that now thou art, In shame, in sorrow, still thy heart Would be the world to me, Love.—L. E. L.

Poetic Sketches. Sketch the First

Literary Gazette, 12th January, 1822, Page 27

ORIGINAL POETRY.

POETIC SKETCHES.

(Sketch the First "A woman’s whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world. She sends forth her sympathies in adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of love, and, if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless; it is bankruptcy of the heart.") "Who shall bring healing to thy heart’s despair, Thy whole rich sum of happiness lies there."

There are dark yew-trees gathered round, beneath Are the white tombstones, and the green grass sods; No other sounds are heard, save the low voice Of a brook wandering by, or the wild song Of the sweet red-breast plaining o'er the graves. There is one tomb, distinguished from the rest By wild flowers braided round in curious wreathes Of April beauty; the blue violet Bending with dewdrops, like to maiden tears, Falling for love betrayed; the primrose wan, As sick with hope deceived; the wild briar-rose And honeysuckles fancifully linked, While watching them with fond and patient care, A pale and wasted Girl leans by that grave. She once was beautiful, but the hot sun Has left too rude a kiss upon her cheek, And she has lain on the damp grass, the sky Her only canopy; while the dew hung Amid her hair, and the hoarse night wind sung Her lullaby; and the unwholesome moss Has been her pillow; this has paled her brow, And that worst sickness, sorrow—She has lain Beside that grave, while some unholy star Shed over her evil influence. I marked her place the flowers round, then smile; Oh, such a sweet sad smile!—she sang at times; Her song had notes most musical, but strange, That thrilled the heart and wet the eye with tears.

These are thy bridal flowers I am now wreathing; This is thy marriage hymn I am now breathing. Some one has been changing The fresh buds I gathered; This is not my wreath, Look how 'tis withered! And then she threw the flowers aside, and turned An earnest gaze on heaven; then sang again.

I love thee, oh! thou bright star, Now looking in light from afar. Am I not thy own love? I see Thy answer shine down upon me. I love thee, thou glorious king, Look on the fair offering I bring. There the summer rose blooms in its pride; Is it not a fit crown for thy bride? Oh! when will that time of joy be When my spirit shall mingle with Thee! Some day I shall seek thy bright shrine, And be to eternity thine.—

They told me of her history; her love Was a neglected flame which had consumed The vase wherein it kindled; Oh, how fraught With bitterness is unrequited love! To know that we have cast life's hope away On a vain shadow. Her's was gentle passion, Quiet and deep, as woman's love should be, All tenderness and silence, only known By the soft meaning of a downcast eye, Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts: A sigh scarce heard, a blush scarce visible, Alone may give it utterance. Love is A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, When felt as only woman love can feel; Pure as the snowfall, when its latest shower Sinks on spring flowers; deep as a cave-locked fountain, And changeless as the cypress's green leaves, For, like them sad, she nourished Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed A passion unconfessed, till He she loved Was wedded with another; then she grew Moody and melancholy. One alone Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, Her gentle sister, but that sister died, And the unhappy girl was left alone— A Maniac. She would wander far, and shunn'd Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt Was that dead sister's grave, and that to her Was as a home. L. E. L.

Ten Years Ago

Literary Gazette, 12th January, 1822, Page 28

TEN YEARS AGO.

"Ten years ago," the world was then A pleasant and a lovely dream; Life was a river banked by flowers, With sunshine glancing o'er the stream; The path was new, and there was thrown A sweet veil over pleasure's ray; But ignorance is happiness, When young Hope is to show the way; And fair the scenes that hope would show When youth was bright "ten years ago."

Ten years are past,—life is no more The fairy land that once I knew— Pleasures have proved but falling stars, And many a sweetest spell untrue: But may I look on these dear ones, Feel their soft smile, their rosy kiss; Or may I turn, Beloved, to thee, My own home-star of truth and bliss! While love's sweet lights thus round me glow, Can I regret "ten years ago?" L. E. L.

Poetic Sketches. Sketch Second.

Literary Gazette, 19th January, 1822, Pages 44-45

ORIGINAL POETRY.

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Second.

"Oh, Power of love! so fearful, yet so fair! Life of our life on earth, yet kin to care!"

It lay mid trees, a little quiet nest Like to the stock dove's, and the honeysuckle Spread o'er the cottage roof, while the red rose Grew round the casement, where the thick-leaved vine Wove a luxuriant curtain, with a wreath, A bridal wreath of silver jessamine;— A soft turf lay before the door, o'erhung With a huge walnut-tree's green canopy, Encircled round with flowers; and, like a queen Of the young roses, stood a bright-cheeked Girl, With smile of Summer and with lips of Spring, A shape of air, and footsteps of the wind. She looked all hope and gladness; but her eyes, Her deep blue eyes, which seemed as they did owe Their tints to the first vi’let April brings, Had yet sad meanings in them ; 'twas not grief, But as a presage of some ill to come.— She stood upon the turf, while round her flew

Her bright-hued pigeons, feeding from her hand; And still she threw fresh flowers upon the cage, Where two white doves were cooing; and then ran Light as the rose leaves falling, to her Sire, To greet him, and to give a kind Good morrow.— A blossom full of promise is Life's Joy, That never comes to fruit; hope for a time Suns the young floweret in its gladsome light, And it looks flourishing—a little while, ‘Tis past, we knew not whither, but 'tis gone— Some canker has consumed it, or some blight Has nipt it unawares, some worm has preyed Upon its life, or else some unkind blast Has torn it from the stem; and those who loved, Who fondly cultured it, are left to weep Over the ruins of their cherished flower.— I passed by that sweet cottage; it was changed; The rose trees were all dead, the unpruned vine Was trailing on the ground, the thick-grown weeds Gave signs of desolation; one poor dove Sat by a broken casement, while her wail Was echo'd mournfully from the lone roof— Love, Oh fond Love! betraying, beautiful, How can we trust the hope of life to thee? Is it not building on the sands? Fair girl,— It was the darkness of thy destiny! She loved one all unworthy of her love. Alas, that still devoted confidence Should lead but unto ruin! He beguil'd Her steps from home and happiness; and when She trusted but to him, his heart no more Answered the beat of her's—then he could leave The fond deceiv'd one lone and desolate! She turned her to her Father, whom she left, And knelt, and pray'd forgiveness: he might not Look on her pale cheek, thin and wasted form, And not weep o'er her kind and pardoning tears. Her heart was broken—and familiar scenes Of happier days and childhood brought no charm To one whose hope was past away—She died.

Nov. L. E. L.

Poetic Sketches. Sketch Third.

Literary Gazette, 26th January, 1822, Page 59

ORIGINAL POETRY

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Third.

"You must make Your heart a grave, and in it bury deep Its young and beautiful feelings."

’Tis hidden from the sun by the tall elms, The noon has here no power, and the soft grass Springs fresh and green, even in the summer's heat. There is deep stillness round, save when the gale Talks to the willows that hang gracefully Over the brook, whose broken murmurs are An answer to the wind which brings then breaks The bubbles on its surface; here the dove Coos in the noon day, and at evening tide The woodlark sings his vesper symphony.— This lime grove was the cherished haunt of one Who loved it for its solitude; to him Silence was holiest language, and the leaves, The birds, the clouds, were his familiar friends. His soul was given to poesy, and crowds And peopled cities were as chains to him, Where all was cold and strange, where none could feel As he did; and he loved to shrink away, The deep woods his companions, and to live Mid visions and wild songs. Oh, blessedness! To see the fair creations of the thought Assume a visible form; sweet Poesy! How witching is thy power upon the heart; Enchantment that does bind our senses up In one unutterable influence; A charmed spell set over every thought, Till life's whole hope is cast upon the lyre. Loved with a love intense and passionate, A strange, a jealous, but devoted love. It is not happiness, tho' in the wreath That binds the poet's brow, there's many a hue Of pleasure and of beauty; yet those flowers, Like other blooms, are guarded round with thorns, And subject to the blight and canker-worm.

Planet of bright but wayward destinies, Thy votaries are thy victims; he who seeks The laurel must essay a weary path; Neglect will chill his best affections, or Cold mockery will greet them. There are given Rich gifts unto the bard; but, not content With silent rapture, he must sun his wealth, Show his hid treasures to the world, and then The canker will consume them, and the fame He fondly sought be bitterness of heart. 'Twas thus with the young Minstrel of this grove: He sought to grasp an iris, beautiful And of bright colours, but all formed of tears. His memory lingers in this glen, for here He caught the inspiration of the gale, Singing its evening hymn, and worshipped Like an idolater the morning star He pass'd in early youth; his heart was as A delicate flower, too soft to blossom long. He sleeps where yon pale willow leans, and weeps The morning dew above his quiet grave. L. E. L.

Song. There were sweet sounds waked from my harp;

Literary Gazette, 26th January, 1822, Page60

SONG.

There were sweet sounds waked from my harp; But see, its strings are broken. Alas! that touch so sweet should leave So sad a token. My harp and heart are both alike, Their music is departed; The joy of song is gone from one So broken hearted. Love has past o'er my harp Like unto summer thunder. And all the beauteous chords of hope Are rent asunder! L. E. L.

Poetic Sketches. Sketch Fourth.

Literary Gazette, 2nd February, 1822, Page 71

ORIGINAL POETRY

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Fourth.

I do love These old remembrances—they are to me The heart’s best intercourse; I love to feel The griefs, the happiness, the wayward fates Of those that have been, for these memories Hallow the spot whereon they linger, and Waken our kindliest sympathies.

The shore was reefed with rocks, whose rugged sides Were venturous footing for the fowler's step: They were shaped out in wild and curious forms, Above all jagged and broken, but below The waves had worn the shaggy points away; For there they rave incessantly. When last I past along the beach, it was at eve, A summer's eve, stormy, but beautiful; I could but look upon the western sky, The rest was hidden from my view; but there The day had spent its glory. One rich light Broke thro' the shadow of the tempest's wing, While the black clouds, with gold and purple edged, Caught every moment warmer hues, until 'Twas all one sparkling arch, and, like a king In triumph o'er his foes, the Sun-god sought The blue depths of the sea;—the waters yet Were ruffled with the storm, and the white foam Yet floated on the billows, while the wind Murmured at times like to an angry child, Who sobs even in his slumber. Mid the rocks That rose stern barriers to the rebel waves, There was one spot less rugged than the rest: Some firs had taken root there, and waved o'er The entrance of a cave, where Grecian bards Had said some Sea-maid dwelt, and decked the place

With ocean treasures, for the walls were bright With crystal spar: In sooth, it seemed just formed For some fair daughter of the main; at noon Here she might bind her hair with shells, and wake Her golden harp. But now a legend's told Of human love and sorrow—it is called The Cavern of the Pirate's Love:—her fate Is soon and sadly told: she followed one, A lawless wanderer of the deep, for whom She left her father's halls. A little while She might know happiness—it is the heart That gives the colour to our destiny. But lovely things are fleeting—blushes, sighs, The hours of youth, smiles, hopes, and minstrel dreams, Spring days and blossoms, music's tones, are all Most fugitive; and swifter still than these Will love dissolve into forgetfulness. She was deserted. For awhile this cave Was her sad refuge; for awhile the rocks Echoed her wild complainings. I can deem How she would gaze upon the sea, and think Each passing cloud her lover's bark, 'till, hope Sickened of its own vanity, and life Sickened with hope, she passed and left a tale, A melancholy tale, just fit to tell On such an eve as this, when sky and sea Are sleeping in the mute and mournful calm Of passion sunk to rest. L. E. L.

Poetic Sketches. Sketch Fifth.

Literary Gazette, 9th February, 1822, Page 89

ORIGINAL POETRY

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Fifth.

"Glad greetings, tender partings, which upstay The drooping mind of absence."

“May never was the month of love, For May is full of flowers; ‘Tis rather April, wet by kind, For love is full of showers."

The palms flung down their shadow, and the air Was rich with breathings of the citron bloom; All the so radiant children of the south, The gold and silver jessamines, the rose In crimson glory, there were gathered—sounds Of music too from waterfalls, the hymn By bees sung to the sweet flowers as they fed; The earth seemed in its infancy, the sky, The fair blue sky, was glowing as the hopes Of childish happiness; it was a land Of blossoming and sunshine.—One is here, To whom the earth is colourless, the heaven Clouded and cold: his heart is far away: The palms have not to him the majesty Of his own land's green oaks, the roses here Are not so sweet as those wild ones that grow In his own valley; he would rather have One pale blue violet than all the buds That Indian suns have kist: his heart is full Of gentle recollections, and those thoughts Which can but hold communion with themselves, The heart's best dreaming. When the wanderer Calls up those tender memories which are So precious to absence, those dear links That distance cannot sunder—come there not Such visionings, young Evelin, o'er thy soul?

The dwelling of thy childhood, the dark hill Above thy native valley, down whose side, Like a swift arrow, shot the foaming stream, The music of the lark, which every morn Waked thy light slumber, and a fairy shape, Whose starry eyes are far too bright for tears, Tho' tears are in them, and whose coral lip Wears still its spring-day smile? Altho' "Farewell," That saddest of sad sounds, is lingering there, Are not these present to thee? . . . Evelin was A soldier, and he left his home with all The high romance of youth. Beloved, and well His heart repaid that love; but there were clouds, Low worldly clouds, upon affection's star: He sought to clear them—what was toil, that led To fame, to fortune, and Elizabeth! - - - - - - There's music in that bower, where the wild rose Has clung about the ash,—such plaining tones As the winds waken: there a harp is breathing, And o'er it leans its mistress, as she lived Upon those melancholy sounds: her head Is bent, as if in pain, upon those strings, And the gold shadows of her long hair veil The white hand which almost unconsciously In melody is wandering: that fair hand Is not more snowy than the cheek it presses; That cheek does tell the history of the heart— Tells, that across the bright May hours of youth Bleak clouds have past, and left behind a trace Bordering on sadness, but withal so sweet You scarce might call it sorrow; and that smile But speaks of patient mild endurance, soft And kind and gentle thoughts, which well become A breaking heart, whose throbs will soon be still In the so lonely but so quiet grave. Yes, she was dying! tho' so young, so fair, Her days were number'd: and if e'er her cheek Wore the rich colour it once had, 't was but The sad and lovely herald of decay, The death rose, that but blossoms on the tomb. Her's was a heart which, when it once had loved, Could but ill brook the many trembling fears That absent love must know—her fate was like

A star, o'er which the clouds steal one by one, Scarce seen, scarce noticed, till the sweet light's gone. - - - - - - - - She is within his arms, and they have met, Evelin and his Elizabeth! a flush Of beautiful delight is on her face; He clasped her silently, and his dark eye Is filled with tears. Ah, tears like these are worth A life of smiles,—at length he gently said, "Elizabeth, my own love!"—it was heaven To think that she again could hear him breathe That dear dear name; she answered not, but lay Upon his bosom motionless. He looked On her sweet face—'twas fixed and pale in death!

L. E. L.

Poetic Sketches. Sketch Sixth.

Literary Gazette, 16th February, 1822, Page 105

ORIGINAL POETRY

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Sixth.

"She had no thought from him apart, The idol of her seared heart, The hope of life's lone pilgrimage, The light, the blessing of her age! But hope is like the rainbow's form, Dying in tears and born in storm; And all must feel what passing flowers Are joys we deemed most truly ours." "Alas, life is a weary voyage, made Mid storms and rocks, with just a sun ray sent To lure us on and leave us.“

Down swept the gathered waters over rocks Which broke at times the column's foaming line; Darkening amid the snow-white froth, it swept Like an all conquering army, and an arch Of sparkling hues that in the sunbeams played Seemed to unite it with the sky which hung Above all calmness and repose: The blue Ethereal, soft and stainless, well beseemed A heaven we deem the dwelling-place of peace: Downwards it rushed; the tall green pines, that hung Upon the cliffs beside, were covered o'er With silver spray: there stood those stately trees, Braving the furious storm, as the proud sons Of Greece, when Greece was glorious, stood and braved The tyrant's menace and defied the yoke. It reached the plain below; a crystal lake Became its dwelling, where the dimpling wave Had lost all memory of its former strife: The willows grew around, and that pale flower The water-lily floated on its face, The halcyon plumed his azure wings, nor feared A coming storm, and in the midst an isle Rose like a blest shrine to the guardian power Of that sweet scene. It was a little spot Shaded by gloomy firs and lighter birch: Here the wild strawberry shed its first white blossoms, And the dove built her nest, while the soft gale, Sighing amid the graceful larches, gave The only answer to her murmurings.—

Two once dwelt here, a Mother and her Child: She was a widow, and had deeply drank The cup of bitterness. But woman bears The storm man shrinks from unrepiningly. At length the one to whom her love had been A light mid darkness died, and she was left In coldness and unkindness: but one link Still bound her to this earth; there was a smile Bore gladness to her wounded heart, a voice Of joy and consolation, one who made Life very precious to her—the young bird, Her own sweet nestling, yet too young to know What clouds hung o'er him.—Quiet came at last; The mourner found a little lone retreat Where she might rest her weary feet—this isle Became her home. Her child grew up A hope and blessing to her:—she was proud To hear that when he joined his young compeers, No foot was fleet as his, no hand could send The arrow so unerringly, and none So lightly and so fearlessly could scale The height whereon the eagle dwelt; and, more Than all, to feel how she was loved! He seemed To live but for her. When with boyish pride He dared the venturous path the others feared, If chance he saw his mother's cheek grow pale, The meed was left unwon. One morn he went In his light skiff, and promised to return As evening fell; but when the sun sank down The air was thick with clouds, and the fierce wind Poured in its anger o'er the waters; loud The thunder rolled, and the red lightnings hurled Their fiery warnings. High upon a rock She raised a fire:—the lightning struck the pile, She marked it not—the rain beat on her head, It was unfelt—but with the agony Of hope expiring, still she fed the flame. Day rolled the clouds away, and, sick at heart, She looked towards the shore—he floated there, Her own beloved Child!—With one wild shriek She threw herself towards him, and the waves Close on them undivided! - - - L. E. L.

Song. Listen to the tale

Literary Gazette, 9th March, 1822, Page 152

SONG.

Listen to the tale That on the night gale Blends with the rose's sigh; The moon shines o'er thy bower, Yon star has marked the hour When no step and no sound are nigh.

Like the nightbird's lay Which dares not by day Tell of its hope and fear, But awakens the flower On the still moonlight hour, When not another song is near.

Then ope those blue eyes, The smile which there lies Glancing of love, fond love; So like yon star's sweet ray, Whose brightness clears away Each shadow that darkens above.

The pearls of the sea Were worthless to me, Earth's gems in vain were mine; They would not give the bliss Of a moment like this When I breathe that sweet sigh of thine.

L. E. L.

The Poet.

Literary Gazette, 27th April, 1822, Page 264

THE POET.

Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre, That the Minstrel will feign what he never has felt; Oh say not his love is a fugitive fire, Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt.

It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray Of sunset can image the soul of the bard; The light of the evening around them may play, But the frost-work beneath is, tho' bright, cold and hard.

’Tis the burning volcano, that ceaselessly glows, Where the Minstrel may find his own semblance pourtray'd; The red fires that gleam on the summit are those That first on his own inmost spirit have preyed.

Ah, deeply the Minstrel has felt all he sings, Every passion he paints his own bosom has known; No note of wild music is swept from the strings, But first his own feelings have echoed the tone.

Then say not his love is a fugitive fire, That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame; Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre; The pulse of the heart and the harp are the same.

L. E. L.

Second Series. Poetic Sketches. Sketch the First. Sappho.

19

Literary Gazette, 4th May, 1822, Page 282

ORIGINAL POETRY.

POETIC SKETCHES.

Second Series - Sketch the First.

SAPPHO.

- - - - She was one Whose lyre the spirit of sweet song had hung With myrtle and with laurel; on whose head Genius had shed his starry glories - - - "- - - transcripts of woman's loving heart And woman's disappointment." - - - -

She leant upon her harp, and thousands looked On her in love and wonder—thousands knelt And worshipp'd in her presence—burning tears, And words that died in utterance, and a pause Of breathless, agitated eagerness, First gave the full heart's homage: then came forth A shout that rose to heaven; and the hills, The distant valleys, all rang with the name Of the Æolian Sappho—every heart Found in itself some echo to her song. Low notes of love—hopes beautiful and fresh, And some gone by for ever—glorious dreams, High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts That dwell upon the absent and the dead, Were breathing in her music—and these are Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed, Her colour's varying with deep emotion— There is a softer blush than conscious pride Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile Is all a woman's timid tenderness: Her eye is on a Youth, and other days And young warm feelings have rushed on her soul With all their former influence,—thoughts that slept Cold, calm as death, have wakened to new life— Whole years' existence have passed in that glance . . . She had once loved in very early days: That was a thing gone by: one had called forth The music of her soul: he loved her too, But not as she did—she was unto him As a young bird, whose early flight he trained, Whose first wild song were sweet, for he had taught Those songs—but she looked up to him with all Youth's deep and passionate idolatry:

Love was her heart's sole universe—he was To her, Hope, Genius, Energy, the God Her inmost spirit worshipped—in whose smile Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious; praise Was prized but as the echo of his own. But other times and other feelings came: Hope is love's element, and love with her Sickened of its own vanity . . . . She lived Mid bright realities and brighter dreams, Those strange but exquisite imaginings That tinge with such sweet colours minstrel thoughts; And Fame, like sunlight, was upon her path; And strangers heard her name, and eyes that never Had looked on Sappho, yet had wept with her. Her first love never wholly lost its power, But, like rich incense shed, although no trace Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness Mingled with every feeling, and it gave That soft and melancholy tenderness Which was the magic of her song . . . . That Youth Who knelt before her was so like the shape That haunted her spring dreams—the same dark eyes, Whose light had once been as the light of heaven!— Others breathed winning flatteries—she turned A careless hearing—but when Phaon spoke, Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light Upon her cheek gave a most tender answer . . . . She loved with all the ardour of a heart Which lives but in itself: her life had passed Amid the great creations of the mind: Love was to her a vision—it was now Heightened into devotion . . . . But a soul So gifted and so passionate as her's Will seek companionship in vain, and find Its feelings solitary . . . . Phaon soon Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid; And Sappho knew that genius, riches, fame, May not soothe slighted love. - - - - - - - There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea; 'Twas there love's last song echoed—there She sleeps, Whose lyre was crowned with laurel, and whose name Will be remembered long as Love or Song Are sacred—the devoted Sappho! L. E. L.

Second Series. Poetic Sketches. Sketch the Second. The Contrast.

21

Literary Gazette, 11th May, 1822, Page 297

ORIGINAL POETRY.

POETIC SKETCHES.

Second Series — Sketch the Second.

THE CONTRAST.

- - - - - - And this is love: Can you then say that love is happiness?

There were two Portraits: one was of a Girl Just blushing into woman; it was not A face of perfect beauty, but it had A most bewildering smile,—there was a glance Of such arch playfulness and innocence, That as you looked, a pleasant feeling came Over the heart, as when you hear a sound Of cheerful music. Rich and glossy curls Were bound with roses, and her sparkling eyes Gleamed like Thalia's, when some quick device Of mirth is in her laugh. Her light step seemed Bounding upon the air with all the life, The buoyant life of one untouched by sorrow. - - - - - - There was another, drawn in after years: The face was young still; but its happy look Was gone, the cheek had lost its colour, and The lip its smile,—the light that once had played Like sunshine in those eyes, was quenched and dim, For tears had wasted it: her long dark hair Floated upon her forehead in loose waves Unbraided, and upon her pale thin hand Her head was bent, as if in pain,—no trace Was left of that sweet gaiety which once Seemed as grief could not darken it, as care Would pass and leave behind no memory. - - - There was one whom she loved undoubtingly, As youth will ever love,—he sought her smile, And said most gentle things, although he knew Another had his vows.—Oh! there are some Can trifle, in cold vanity, with all The warm soul's precious throbs, to whom it is A triumph that a fond devoted heart Is breaking for them,—who can bear to call Young flowers into beauty, and then crush them! Affections trampled on, and hopes destroyed, Tears wrung from very bitterness, and sighs That waste the breath of life,—these all were her's Whose image is before me. She had given Life's hope to a most fragile bark, to love! ’Twas wrecked—wrecked by love's treachery: she knew, Yet spoke not of his falsehood; but the charm That bound her to existence was dispelled— Her days were numbered;— She is sleeping now.