Landon in The Literary Gazette 1823

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Landon in The Literary Gazette 1823

Poems in The London Literary Gazette during the year 1823 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) compiled by Peter J. Bolton

Contents:

Fragments in Rhyme. Sta. Valerie

Literary Gazette, 4th January, 1823, Page 12

ORIGINAL POETRY.

FRAGMENTS IN RHYME.

XII.—Sta. Valerie.

Raised on the rocky barriers of the sea, Stands thy dark convent, fair St. Valerie! Lone like an eagle's nest; the pine-trees tall Throw their long shadows on the heavy wall, Where never sound is heard, save the wild sweep Of mountain-waters rushing to the deep, The tempest's midnight-song, the battle-cry Of warring winds, like armies met on high, And in a silent hour the convent chime, And sometimes, at the quiet evening time A vesper song—those tones, so pure, so sweet, When airs of earth and words of heaven do meet! Sad is the legend of that young Saint's doom! When the Spring Rose was in its May of bloom, The storm was darkening; at that sweet hour When hands beloved had reared her nuptial bower, The pestilence came o'er the land, and he, With whom her heart was, died that very morn— Her bridal morn! Alas, that there should be Such evils ever for affection born! She shrank away from earth, and solitude Is the sole refuse for the heart's worst pain; Life had no ties,—she turned her unto heaven, And on the steep rock reared her holy fane. It has an air of sadness, as just meet For the so broken heart's last lone retreat!— A portrait here has still preserved each charm: I saw it one bright evening, when the warm Last glow of sunset shed its crimson ray Over the lovely image. She was fair As those most radiant spirits of the air Whose life is amid flowers; like the day, The golden summer day, her glossy hair Fell o'er a brow of Indian ivory; Her check was pale, and in her large dark eye There was a thought of sorrow, and her brow Upon one small snow hand leant pensively, As if to hide her tears—the other prest A silver crucifix upon her breast. I ne'er saw sadness touching as in thee And thy lorn look, oh fair St. Valerie!

Fragments in Rhyme. Maid Marian.

Literary Gazette, 4th January, 1823, Page 12

XIII.

Written after seeing Maid Marian 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!

L. E. L.

Medallion Wafers

Literary Gazette, 4th January, 1823, Pages 11-12

MEDALLION WAFERS

We think we are right in classing among the Fine Arts one of the prettiest, and not the least useful inventions of the present period: we allude to what are denominated Medallion Wafers. These are Seals of a particular composition, which, being stuck on letters, perform the office of wax or wafer in a very elegant fashion. They are of all sizes, colours, and devices; many of them beautiful as copies of the finest gems, cameos, and intaglios of the antique. Thus these specimens not only serve an every day purpose with facility, but are calculated to spread abroad an acquaintance and admiration of the most graceful forms of taste and genius. The composition is, we take it for granted, a secret to the inventors, Messrs. Thomson, of Wellington-street. We suspect isinglass and white lead to be ingredients; but however made, they are certainly exceedingly beautiful, and as fit for love-letters as any thing that could be imagined.

Advertisement on the 11th January, 1823, Page 30

Medallion Wafers: Introduction

Literary Gazette, 25th January, 1823, page 60

ORIGINAL POETRY.

MEDALLION WAFERS.

[The hint for this series of Poems (to be continued occasionally) has been taken from the account of the Medallion Wafers in the Literary Gazette. These slight things preserve many of the most beautiful forms of antiquity; and they are here devoted to verse, on the supposition that they have been employed as seals to lovers' correspondence.]

INTRODUCTION.

I do so prize the slightest thing Touched, looked, or breathed upon by thee, That all or aught which can but bring One single thought of thine to me, Is precious as a pilgrim's gift Upon the shrine he most loves left.

And if, like those charmed caves that weep, Preserving tears of crystal dew, My lute's flow has a power to keep From perishing what it shrines too— It only shall preserve the things Bearing the bright print of Love's wings.

Here's many a youth with radiant brow Darkened by raven curls like thine, Beauty, whose smile burns even now, And love-tales made by song divine: And these have been the guardian powers To words as sweet as summer flowers.

I’ll tell thee now the history Of these sweet shapes: they are so dear, Each has been on a scroll from thee; Thy kiss, thy sigh, are glowing here: They'll be the spirit of each tone I fain would wake from chords long gone.

Just glimpses of the fairest dreams I've had when in a hot noon sleeping, Or those diviner, wilder gleams When I some starry watch was keeping; And sometimes those bright waves of thought Only from lips like thine, Love, caught.

Oh dear, these lights from the old world, So redolent with love and song! Those radiant gods, now downward hurled From the bright thrones they held so long! But they have power that cannot die Over the heart's eternity.

Medallion Wafers - Cupid Riding a Peacock

Literary Gazette, 25th January, 1823, Pages 60

CUPID RIDING A PEACOCK. All the colours glistening On the rainbow of the spring, Mingled with the deeper hue Of the grass green emerald too, Are upon that bird, whose neck Crimson wreaths of roses deck,— Mounted by a Boy, whose lip Is such as the bee would sip For the first rosebud in May. Love, upon a summer day, Bade the Graces link a chain Of sweet flowers, for a rein Round the peacock's glorious wing. Forth he rode; then, like the king Of bright colours, smiles, and blooms, Sunny darts and golden plumes. Oh this is not that sweet love Own companion to the dove; But a wild and wandering thing, Varying as the lights that fling Radiance o'er his peacock's wing. I do weep, that Love should be Ever linked with Vanity.

Medallion Wafers - Atalanta, represented as a Huntress with her bow.

Literary Gazette, 25th January, 1823, Pages 60

Atalanta, represented as a Huntress with her bow.

A Huntress with her silver bow, And radiant curls upon the snow Of a young brow, whose open look Was fair and pure as the clear brook On which the moonlight plays; 'tis she, Companion of the forest tree, Of Scyrus, she whose foot of wind Left stag and arrow far behind, Whose heart, like air or sunshine free, Recked but to scorn what love might be. "My soul is far too proud for love; I would be like yon lark above, With will and power to wing my way, With none to watch and none to stay; And Love's chain would be sad to me As were a cage, free bird, to thee. Ill would it suit a heart like mine To live upon another's look; III could I bear the doubts, the griefs, The all that anxious love must brook. Thou bright winged god! I mock thy chain, Thy arrow points to me in vain." But maiden vows are like the rose, Bending with every breeze that blows; Or like the sparkles on the stream, Changing with every changing gleam; Or like the colours on her cheek, Or like the words her lips will speak, Each firm resolve will melt away Like ice before a sunny ray. Soon that young Huntress of the grove Bartered her liberty for love, And sighed and smiled beneath the thrall Of him whose rule is over all. L. E. L.

The Cadets. An Indian Sketch

Literary Gazette, 1st February, 1823, Pages 74-75

See erratum at the foot of page 16 re correction to the title (The Cadets)

ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE CADETS. An Indian Sketch.

The banners are flashing, hurrah, hurrah! The sabres are clashing, hurrah, hurrah! For the star wept-on grave Of the conquering brave, Who would not rush to the field? Hurrah!

On to the battle, hurrah, hurrah! The war thunder's rattle, hurrah, hurrah! 'Tis the music most dear To the warrior's ear, For it calls to the combat, hurrah!

The death song is singing, hurrah, hurrah! The death shots are ringing, hurrah, hurrah! By the musket's red peal, By the light of our steel, We will stand to our colours or die, hurrah! L. E. L.

New words to the Air "The Campbells are coming.

The ship rode o'er the waters gallantly, Her pennons waving, hope and enterprise Filling her white sails with their eager breath. The shore lay dim behind. That Iong last look Given at parting to our own dear land— Our land of infancy, and home, and love — Strained every eyeball now; and as the coast Diminished to one dim and distant line, How very tenderly each bosom clung To all its old affections! Friends and home, How dear they are when we are parting from them! And "farewell" came, in all its many tones Of hope, and sorrow, and anxiety, Freshly upon the ear, as never felt Deeply and truly till in that last glance!— On, on the vessel went. The waves grew red Beneath the crimson of the setting sun; Then rolled in silver light, when the pale moon Claimed her so gentle empire o'er the sky, Like the deep flush of anger calmed by meek Enduring patience. How most beautiful This radiant meeting of the sky and sea! Above, the stars, like spirits in their pride Wandering in music round their lovely queen, Too glorious for idolatry. Beneath, The ocean, like a mighty mirror, spread In its immensity of emerald beauty.

Then all around so calm, so passionless, The silence, and the stillness, and the light Unbroken by a shadow,—how the heart Must feel its finer impulses alive At such an hour as this!—Upon the deck Of that tall ship, the only thing whose image Was stamped in darkness on the moon-lit waves, Two Youths were leaning: one with the fair hair And blue eyes, with that falcon glance which mark'd The graceful Saxon, when with his good sword He sought a home and heritage; the other, Like a young Roman, with his raven curls And dark and flashing eyes. Like two spring pines The youthful Soldiers stood there, side by side They stood, and talked of all those buoyant dreams Which colour life but once—those morning lights That shine so cloudlessly and pass so soon! Hope's waters yet were fresh with them; the cares, The earthly cares, that stain each nobler aim, And withering sorrows, falsehood, discontent, Had not as yet profaned thy sweetest fountain, Delicious Hope! And there they leant, and spoke Of battle, glorious battle, till each ear Rang with the trumpet's music, and each eye Flashed at the thought of its first field.— Then gentler feelings gushed upon their heart. Fireside remembrances and kind affections: They dwelt on the last evening they had past Within their sweet home-circle, and recalled How each one prest more closely than their wont Around the hearth, all conscious that to-morrow A vacant place would be in that sweet ring; How each affectionate lip had prophesied Fortune and fame; and how in glistening eyes Hope had looked up but in the midst of tears And then, at if each felt there was a tie Of stronger unity in these recallings,

Each the more kindly grasped the other's hand, And said again—they'd live or die together. - - - - - Years have pass'd by; those youths are in their summer; Each cheek is darkened by an Indian sky: Some of hope's hues have faded like their colour, Their island colour, but enow remain To make life's landscape still most promising. Disease, the brand, the ball, alike have spared them, Still they have fought together. Many times Have English friends been proud to hear their name. It is an Indian night: a starless sky Flooded with moonlight—dark and giant palms Fling their long shadows o'er the azure river— The air is heavy with perfume—the dew, Like love's power over woman, calling forth The soul of sweetness, on the sumbal lies, Till every scarlet berry yields its incense; The pale mangolia, with its flowers of light, The carmalata, crimson as a blush, All, all yield their sweet offerings to the moon:— But war is in these groves, and the white tents, Where dwell the children of the sword, Are pitched amid the yellow jessamines. Steps dashed into the ground, the earth torn up And sulphurous; patches of a blood-red hue, And worst of all, the gashed and ghastly slain, And the far sounds of tigers, who can scent Their prey, yet scared by the red watch-fire’s gleam, Howl in the distant jungles. They are here, These brother Soldiers: each, wrapt in his cloak, Sat by the river: they were talking o'er Combats where each had been the other’s shield, Marches whose weariness had been beguiled By interchange of hopes; yet 'mid the pride With which they waited for to-morrow’s battle. Mingled a shade of deeper tenderness, And each one charged the other with kind words, Greetings of long remembrance, to old friends,

If only one should fall. Hark, hark! a rush Of hurrying feet is heard amid the woods,— A ringing peal of musketry, red lights Flashing like meteors, clanging swords and shouts, Deep groans, are on the wind—the enemy Has rushed down from the mountains! Up they spring, Those friends, and each is at his post. Dark night, Oh terrible is thy shadow on the battle! Blows dealt alike on friend and foe, the dead , And dying trampled on—oh, day alone Should look upon the soldier's deeds! At length The sun rose o'er his palm and diamond land: His first light shone on blood—the morning's tears Fell over patching lips and weary brows, And quenched the death-thirst of full many a wretch Already blackening in last agony. But they are safe, those war-stars of the field, The English warriors: one desperate rush, And all gives way before them. See! they turn Their recreant enemies: the dark-eyed youth, Waving the colours, gallantly springs forth; But death is on his course! that graceful arm Is smitten in its strength. He fell, but stretched With his last grasp the banner to his friend, Who caught the flag, rushed forward as revenge Were now his only hope. Why fall those colours? Their gallant bearer never flagged before: But fate hath marked him, too: they fell together!

L.E. L.

Medallion Wafers - Head of Tyrtæus

Literary Gazette, 8th February 1823, Page 91

ORIGINAL POETRY.

MEDALLION WAFERS.

HEAD OF TYRTÆUS.

Glorious Bard! whose lyre was heard Amid the armed ring, As victory were upon each word And death on every string— Glorious Bard! to whom belong Wreaths not often claimed by song, Those hung round the warrior's shield— Laurels from the blood-red field. The soldier cowered beneath his tent, His sword all rust, his bow unbent; His comrades, who had dared to die, Unburied on the plain, And, jeered by mocking foemen nigh, He dared not taunt again. The Bard took up his burning song; Each heart beat high, each arm grew strong: He told them of the curse and shame That darken round the coward's name; Told how the mother's cheek would burn To hear her son had fled, How the young maiden's smile would turn To tears, should it be said,— “The war strength of thy lover's brand Is weaker than thine own fair hand;" And proudly rung his harp while telling The fallen warrior's fame, When trumpet, shout, and song are swelling All glorious with his name. It was enough,—each sword was out, The mountains trembled in the shout Of men prepared like men to die For Sparta and for victory!

Medallion Wafers - Unknown Female Head

Literary Gazette, 8th February 1823, Page 91

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!

Medallion Wafers - A Youth, with a Lyre in his hand

Literary Gazette, 8th February 1823, Page 91

A Youth, with a 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 be 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 prized 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!

Medallion Wafers - Hercules and Iole

Literary Gazette, 8th February 1823, Page 91

HERCULES AND IOLE.

She held the cup; and he the while Sat gazing on her playful smile, As all the wine he wished to sip Was one kiss from her rosebud lip. Half leaning to him, half withdrawn, Like one above the waters bending, And blushing like the maiden dawn Before the bridegroom sun's ascending— The head a little turned aside, Downcast the eyes, as if to hide Beneath their black fringe, shadowy dim, The glance which yet would steal to him— Her hero love, Iole stood. And the dark Chief had washed the blood From his red hands, and thrown away His arms, which there all useless lay, As every trophy that he sought, By time and toil and danger bought, Were won in winning woman's sigh— One glance from her bewildering eye. His arms are round the graceful shape As if he feared it could escape, Guarding like life what is so dear— All this is love's delicious fear— And yet delaying ere he presses That lip so soft, that cheek so bright, As tho' the joy of those caresses Would, like the burst of sudden light, Be too much happiness. - - - There were Warfare and danger, toil and care, Even from earliest infancy, Hero of sorrows! marked for thee; But can they countervail the bliss That lightens o'er an hour like this?

Medallion Wafers - Love Sleeping beneath a Palm-Tree

Literary Gazette, 8th February 1823, Page 91

LOVE SLEEPING BENEATH A PALM-TREE.

Ah, this is ours! that gentle Love Sleeping beneath the palm-tree's shade, Weaving the white wings of the dove, His bow, unbent, beside him laid. Give me the Love that will not change, Tho' aught and all were changed beside; The Love that nothing can estrange, Whate'er of weal or woe betide; Fixed in one faith, vowed to one vow, Thro' every chance and change of ill, Bearing with all Love meets below Of sorrow, yet devoted still! It may have wings, but they must be Of colours in all lights the same, Like the moth's, hovering constantly, Even to death, around one flame. A star that shines forth night and day, A wreath of spring and winter flowers, Emblem true love. And I may say, May I not, dear!—"Such love is ours“

L.E.L In our our last, the title should not have been the Cadet, but the Cadets.

Ballads I. - The Soldier’s Grave

Literary Gazette, 15th February 1823, Page 107

ORIGINAL POETRY.

BALLADS.

I.—THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.

There's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb, Beneath is a Soldier lying: The death-wound came amid sword and plume, When banner and ball were flying.

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast, By wet wild flowers surrounded; The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest, Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears that fell from manly eyes, There was woman's gentler weeping, And the wailing of age and infant cries, O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.

He had left his home in his spirit's pride, With his father's sword and blessing; He stood with the valiant side by side, His country's wrongs redressing.

He came again, in the light of his fame, When the red campaign was over: One heart that in secret had kept his name, Was claimed by the Soldier lover.

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky, He left his sweet home for battle; And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry, And the cannon's long death rattle.

He came again,—but an altered man: The path of the grave was before him, And the smile that he wore was cold and wan, For the shadow of death hung o'er him.

He spoke of victory,—spoke of cheer:— These are words that are vainly spoken To the childless mother or orphan's ear, Or the widow whose heart is broken.

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone, Half hidden by yonder willow; There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won, But who died on his own home pillow!

Ballads II. - Song of the Hunter’s Bride

Literary Gazette, 15th February 1823, Page 107

II. SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE.

Another day—another day, And yet he comes not nigh; I look amid the dim blue hills, Yet nothing meets mine eye.

I hear the rush of mountain-streams Upon the echoes borne; I hear the singing of the birds, But not my hunter's horn.

The eagle sails in darkness past, The watchful chamois bounds; But what I look for comes not near,— My Ulric's hawk and hounds.

Three times I thus have watched the snow Grow crimson with the stain The setting sun threw o'er the rock, And I have watched in vain.

I love to see the graceful bow Across his shoulder slung,— I love to see the golden horn Beside his baldric hung.

I love his dark hounds, and I love His falcon's sweeping flight; I love to see his manly cheek With mountain-colours bright.

I've waited patiently, but now Would that the chase were o'er; Well may he love the hunter's toil, But he should love me more.

Why stays he thus?—he would be here If his love equalled mine; Methinks had I one fond caged dove I would not let it pine.

But, hark! what are those ringing steps That up the valley come? I see his hounds,—I see himself,— My Ulric, welcome home!

Ballads III. - The Crusader

Literary Gazette, 15th February 1823, Page 107

III. THE CRUSADER.

He is come from the land of the sword and shrine, From the sainted battles of Palestine; The snow-plumes wave o'er his victor crest, Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast. His courser is black as black can be, Save the brow star white as the foam of the sea, And he wears a scarf of 'broidery rare, The last love-gift of his lady fair: It bore for device a cross and a dove, And the words, "I am vowed to my God and my love!" He comes not back the same that he went, For his sword has been tried, and his strength has been spent; His golden hair has a deeper brown, And his brow has caught a darker frown, And his lip hath lost its boyish red, And the shade of the South o'er his cheek is spread; But stately his step, and his bearing high, And wild the light of his fiery eye; And proud in the lists were the maiden bright Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her knight. But he rides for the home he has pined to see In the court, in the camp, in captivity. He reached the castle,—the gate was thrown

Open and wide, but he stood there alone; He entered the door,—his own step was all That echoed within the deserted hall; He stood on the roof of the ancient tower, And for banner there waved one pale wall-flower; And for sound of the trumpet and sound of the horn, Came the scream of the owl on the night-wind borne; And the turrets were falling, the vassals were flown, And the bat ruled the halls he had thought his own. His heart throbbed high: oh, never again Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain, He never might think on his boyish years Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears Which hope and memory shed when they meet. The grave of his kindred was at his feet: He stood alone, the last of his race, With the cold wide world for his dwelling-place. The home of his fathers gone to decay,— All but their memory was pass'd away; No one to welcome, no one to share The laurel he no more was proud to wear: He came in the pride of his war success But to weep over very desolateness. They pointed him to a barren plain Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain; They showed him the lowly grave, where slept The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept; But they could not show him one living thing To which his withered heart could cling. - - - Amid the warriors of Palestine Is one, the first in the battle-line; It is not for glory he seeks the field, For a blasted tree is upon his shield, And the motto he bears is, "I fight for a grave:" He found in—that Warrior has died with the brave!

L. E. L.

Leander and Hero

Literary Gazette, 22nd February 1823, Page 124

LEANDER AND HERO.

It is a tale that many songs have told, And old, if tale of love can e'er be old; Yet dear to me this lingering o'er the fate Of two so young, so true, so passionate! And thou, the idol of my harp, the Soul Of poetry, to me my hope, my whole Happiness of existence, there will be Some gentlest tones that I have caught from thee! Will not each heart-pulse vibrate, as I tell Of faith even unto death unchangeable! Leander and his Hero! they should be, When youthful lovers talk of constancy, Invoked. Oh, for one breath of softest song, Such as on summer evenings floats along, To murmur low their history! every word That whispers of them, should be like those heard At moonlight casements, when th' awakened maid Sighs her soft answer to the serenade. - - - She stood beside the altar, like the Queen, The bright-eyed Queen that she was worshipping. Her hair was bound with roses, which did fling A perfume round, for she that morn had been To gather roses, that were clustering now Amid the shadowy curls upon her brow. One of the loveliest daughters of that land, Divinest Greece! that taught the painter's hand To give eternity to loveliness; One of those dark-eyed maids, to whom belong The glory and the beauty of each Song Thy poets breathed, for it was theirs to bless With life the pencil and the lyre's dreams, Giving reality to visioned gleams Of bright divinities. Amid the crowd That in the presence of young Hero bowed, Was one who knelt with fond idolatry, As if in homage to some deity, Gazing upon her as each gaze he took Must be the very last—that intense look That none but lovers give, when they would trace On their heart's tablets some adored face. The radiant Priestess from the temple past: Yet there Leander staid, to catch the last Wave of her fragrant hair, the last low fall Of her white feet, so light and musical;

And then he wandered silent to a grove, To feed upon the full heart's ecstasy. The moon was sailing o'er the deep blue sky, Each moment shedding fuller light above, As the pale crimson from the west departs. Ah, this is just the hour for passionate hearts To linger over dreams of happiness, All of young love's delicious loveliness! The cypress waved upon the evening air Like the long tresses of a beauty's hair; And close beside was laurel; and the pale Snow blossoms of the myrtle tree, so frail And delicate, like woman; 'mid the shade Rose the white pillars of the colonnade Around the marble temple, where the Queen Of Love was worshipped, and there was seen, Where the grove ended, the so glorious sea Now in its azure sleep's tranquillity. He saw a white veil wave,—his heart beat high: He heard a voice, and then a low toned sigh. Gently he stole amid the shading trees— It is his love—his Hero that he sees! Her hand lay motionless upon the lute, Which thrilled beneath the touch, her lip was mute, Only her eyes were speaking; dew and light There blended like the hyacinth, when night Has wept upon its bosom; she did seem As consciousness were lost in some sweet dream— That dream was love! Blushes were on her cheek, And what, save love, do blushes ever speak? Her lips were parted, as one moment more, And then the heart would yield its hidden store. 'Twas so at length her thought found utterance: Light, feeling, flashed from her awakened glance-- She paused--then gazed on one pale star above, Poured to her lute the burning words of love! Leander heard his name! How more than sweet That moment, as he knelt at Hero's feet, Breathing his passion in each thrilling word, Only by lovers said, by lovers heard.