Landon in The Literary Gazette 1825

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Landon in The Literary Gazette 1825

Poems in The London Literary Gazette during the year 1825 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) (and as Iole) compiled by Peter J. Bolton

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Poems in The London Literary Gazette during the year 1825 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) (and as Iole) compiled by Peter J. Bolton

Valedictory Stanzas

Literary Gazette, 22nd January, 1825, Page 59

ORIGINAL POETRY. 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 l 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.

'Т 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 mу 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. L. E. L.

Stanzas - I turn’d into the olive grove

Literary Gazette, 5th February, 1825, Page 92

ORIGINAL POETRY. STANZAS.

“And art thou gone! Ah! life was never made For one like thee!"

I turn'd into the olive grove Where first I said my vow of love; The leaves were fresh, the flowers were fair, As in our first sweet wand'ring there. And as I look'd on the blue sky, And saw the gem-clear stream pass by, How did I wish that, like these, fate Had formed the heart inanimate. And all around was breath and bloom, And colour'd lamps of rich perfume Flowers mixt with the green leaves, and made A varied light amid the shade. It seem'd like wrong that they could be So fair, and yet not fair for thee! I thought upon thy tenderness, No chance could change, no wrong make less, When madden'd brain, and tortur'd mind, Made even me almost unkind To one, for whom I would have given A death-bed certainty of Heaven! I thought on the sweet smile, which stole Amid the tempest of my soul, And, like the moonlight on the tide, Smooth'd what was rough to all beside. And then I thought how, day by day, I mark'd some fresh sign of decay, Upon the cheek, upon the brow, Which only thou wouldst not allow; The temple, where the veins shone through, The clearness of the eyes' deep blue, Like stars, whose brightest rays have met, For one last blaze before they set; And, when I wept this worst of ill, To find a ruin deeper still— To leave thee, or to see thee die, In the last wants of poverty. We parted, dear one; thou wast left, Of him thou hadst so lov'd bereft,

To coldness, misery, and pain, All the worn heart endures in vain, And yet too gentle to complain; Left, 'mid the cold and proud—behind— Friends even more than fate unkind ; And then, thy solitude of death, No lip to catch thy parting breath, No clasp, fond as that it would press Life to stay for love's last caress; And then, the years of toil and care Thy gentleness had had to bear; All, all the faithlessness and wrong That have pursu'd my path so long; Desolate, as I feel alone, How can I weep that thou art gone?

L. E. L.

Alas, Alas, I cannot chose but love him

Literary Gazette, 26th February, 1825, Page 140

ORIGINAL POETRY.

Alas, alas! I cannot choose but love him.

I have a dream upon my heart, I cannot bid it quite depart, Although I know that dream is one That I should like a serpent, shun: I know too well what Love will be, To trust such guest to bide with me.

I have seen hearts well nigh to break, I have looked on the faded cheek; Many a sigh have I seen swelling On lips where the red rose was dwelling: All this sorrow mine will be, If I let Love dwell with me.

The laugh, the lightest one of all Amid the gayest festival, I have known altered for the tear, Whose falling does not sooth, but sear: Knowing this, it cannot be That I will risk Love with me.

I have known the sweetest sleep Changed to vigils that but weep; I have known the careless eye Hide the depth of agony: This is what I feel will be Mine when Love has breathed on me.

I have seen the broken heart In its hopelessness depart; Seen Life's brightest hopes but crave Of their stars an early grave: What sin on my soul can be, That Love's spell is set on me?

Yet I feel that all in vain Would I struggle with the chain That upon my heart is set; I may pine, but not forget; Can it Love, and must it be, One more victim found in me.

Yet that voice is in mine ear; Would that it were not so clear; Still, that look is as a spell, With a power I may not quell. Love, if thou my doom must be, Find a mortal shaft for me.

All my heart can stoop to bear, All Love's pain, and all Love’s care, To find that its own energies Cannot to themselves suffice, To feel another one can be Doom and destiny to me.

Yet I love, and O! how well Lip or look may never tell; Never might my spirit brook Others on its depths to look; Oh, I would give worlds to be Free, even as I once was free. L. E. L.

Stanzas - Well, indeed, you may deem

Literary Gazette, 12th March, 1825, Page 173

ORIGINAL POETRY. STANZAS.

Is this your Creed of Love? It is enough To make one loathe the very name of love. Love is too great a stake for this child’s play— This trifling with your happiness. What! win, And then not wear, the heart that you have won, Till you have rackt each nerve, till you have wrung The life blood forth in tears; and this forsooth, For that its depths of passion will be food To the most selfish of all vanity: Oh shame;—deep shame!3

Well, indeed, may you deem, That Love is woe and pain, That all its griefs are real, And all its joys are vain.

While your Creed of Love is like What you say that creed to be, It is the heart creates Its own bliss and misery.

To try, but not to trust— To doubt, and to deride— To trifle, and to torture; And can this be your pride?

To bid the cheek grow pale, The lip lose its gaiety, The eye forget its light, So it is for love of thee.

This could but teach the heart, Its tenderness to hide, For, deep as is a woman's love, 'Tis equall'd by her pride.

What must a woman feel, Whose very soul is given To that wild love—whose world must be Her all of Hell or Heaven?

Then to meet the careless smile, Look on the altered eye, See it on others dwell, and pass Herself regardless by.

And having drained the bitter dregs, All bitterness above, Of slighted love—then to be told, 'Twas but to try your love.

The heart that could bear this Must be of stone or steel; The heart that broke not with such wrong, Was not made love to feel.

Alas! for her whose love Is fated thine to be; Better the heart should break Than beat for one like thee. L. E. L.

Love’s Reproaches

Literary Gazette, 26th March, 1825, Page 203

ORIGINAL POETRY. LOVE'S REPROACHES.

I deeply feel what Love In its holiness should be, And once there was a time When such was my love for thee. But that time is past and gone, Past like a summer shower; It was too violent Not to exhaust its power. Oh! the bosom will rebel Against a tyrant's sway, Tho’ its best blood must be shed, E're he be driven away. And thus it was with me; I may not say how well I trusted and I loved,— That your own heart may tell. If deep fidelity, That never knew a stain; If humbleness, like that Of the slave beneath the chain; If homage, like that paid To the monarch on his throne; If these may not, what may Show how much I was thine own.

And you took my young heart, And what did you grave there, But a deep and deadly lesson, Its first and last despair. I am but young in life, But I have lived thro' years Of heart burning and sorrow, Of silence and of tears: But I am too proud to pine, And my tears shall be as streams Cave-locked beneath the earth, Of whose flowing no one dreams. I have taught myself to feign Smiles, till those smiles are now A second nature to my lip, A second to my brow. And when I hear of love, I will spurn and scorn the name, Nor ever own I weep; my heart Is ashes, but not flame. Aye! it is pride to think How much the spirit feels Of agony, and yet How little it reveals. Oh, mockery! I would give worlds, If I could dream again The dreams, which even in my sleep I now know are so vain. But never can I feel Again as I have done; And, alas! the waste of life, When love is wholly gone. L. E. L.

Holyrood

Literary Gazette, 26th March, 1825, Page 205

This poem is included in an article about The Diorama in Regent’s Park, which Letitia Landon visited and was thus inspired by the new display there, which was of ‘The Ruins of Holyrood Chapel, a moonlight scene’, by Louis Daguerre.

HOLYROOD.

The moonlight fell like pity o'er the walls And broken arches, which the conqueror, Time Had rode unto destruction; the grey moss, A silver cloak, hung lightly o'er the ruins; And nothing came upon the soul but soft, Sad images. And this was once a palace, Where the rich viol answered to the lute, And maidens flung the flowers from their hair Till the halls swam with perfume: here the dance Kept time with light harps, and yet lighter feet; And here the beautiful Mary kept her court, Where sighs and smiles made her regality, And dreamed not of the long and many years When the heart was to waste itself away In hope, whose anxiousness was as a curse: Here, royal in her beauty and her power, The prison and the scaffold, could they be But things whose very name was not for her! And this, now fallen sanctuary, how oft Have hymns and incense made it holiness; How oft, perhaps, at the low midnight hour, lts once fair mistress may have stolen to pour At its pure altar, thoughts which have no vent, But deep and silent prayer; when the heart finds

That it may not suffice unto itself, But seeks communion with that other state, Whose mystery to it is as a shroud In which it may conceal its strife of thought, And find repose. . . . . . . . . . . But it is utterly changed: No incense rises, save some chance wild-flower Breathes grateful to the air; no hymn is heard, No sound, but the bat's melancholy wings; And all is desolate, and solitude. And thus it is with links of destiny: Clay fastens on with gold—and none may tell What the chain's next unravelling will be Alas, the mockeries in which fate delights! Alas, for time!—still more, alas, for change!—L. E. L.

Song - Too well I know my heart

Literary Gazette, 9th April, 1825, Page 235-236

ORIGINAL POETRY. SONGS.

Too well I know my Heart.

Too well I know my heart Worthless all may be; Yet not for that the less Is it vowed to thee.

As in some eastern lands They place upon the tomb Offerings of sunny fruit, Of flowers and perfume:

Although they know in vain Their gifts are offered there; That the fruit and flowers will be Wasted on sun and air.

My feelings are those gifts, Offered, alas! in vain; Yet, there they must be offer'd, And there they must remain.

I know that all my hopes Are on a funeral shrine; But it is enough for me, To know that they are thine.

Song - I knew I Loved in vain

I knew I Loved in vain.

I knew I lov'd in vain; It was all the same to me; I never had a thought Of being lov'd by thee.

I—so light, so vain, Grew humble in thy sight; ’Twas as if before thy star Mine quail'd, and lost its light.

I—who had said my heart Was too high for aught to win, Felt it tremble before thee, For the traitor was within.

And all my pride was chang'd To meek and gentle thought; There was no sight or sound, But somewhat of thee brought.

Yet still I am too proud; And my spirit is too high For this weak tenderness;— If I must love, I die. L. E. L.

Song - My heart is wholly changed

Literary Gazette, 23rd April, 1825, Page 268

ORIGINAL POETRY. SONG.

My heart is wholly changed.

My heart is wholly changed From what it was to me, Altho' I scarce may say In what that change can be.

'Tis not from faded hope; For all that hope could seem, Has been realized for me Beyond its wildest dream.

Nor yet is it that love Has lighted up my heart; In the fears and cares of love, As yet I have no part:

For far too light a spirit, And too cold a breast is mine, For Love to fix on me As his dwelling place and shrine.

But I am sad to think Upon life's summer scene,— To think upon what is, And upon what has been:

To think how friends deceive, To think how foes can feign; And how the heart's best gifts Are given but in vain;

To think that tears are false, To think the same of smiles, To think that honeyed words The trusting one beguiles:

Of sorrow, like a blight, Falling on youth and bloom; To think upon the broken heart, On sickness and the tomb:

And knowing what I know, And seeing what I see, How can I marvel that my heart Is changed and sad to me.

L. E. L.

Realities

Literary Gazette, 30th April, 1825, Page 284

ORIGINAL POETRY. REALITIES.

I made myself a little boat And launched it on the sea; And into the wide world went forth To see what there might be.

I had a power given me To gaze on every heart, And from its secret joy or grief To bid the veil depart.

I entered first a stately hall; It shone with light and bloom, And the air was heavy with the breath Of music and perfume.

There saw I one, who on his head Wore a bright crown of gold, And his purple mantle swept the ground In many a broidered fold;

But he had a troubled glance, And his look was dark with care. And his thoughts wandered to and fro, And rest they found no where.

I stood next by a gay lady; Rich gems were in her hair; There was not one so proud as she, There was not one so fair:

But I perceived her spirit turned From the enchanted scene, With sad and mournful memory, To days which once had been;

When her hair was bound with flowers, And her spirits fresh like them, Ere she had bartered happiness For the heartless diadem.

I entered next a mossy bower; And there two lovers leant, As if their destiny were clear As the moonlit element.

A moment passed, and all was dark, For the lover's blood was shed; And his wan mistress lay beside— Her life with his had fled.

I saw a minstrel's lofty brow, Green with his laurel crown; But I saw, too, that high pale brow Was bowed in sorrow down:

For blighted hope was at his heart, And he had found that fame (The fame he had thought more than life) Was nothing but a name.

I saw the sun like glory rise On the warrior's snow-white plume; And stern and stately was his step, But his lip and eye were gloom:

I saw him look towards the field He had covered with the slain,— I knew his soul was on the friends He should not see again.

I then the crowded city sought— There was hurrying to and fro; I asked if in it might be rest? And tumult answered, no.

I called the traveller wind, oh! where Peace may the weary crave? And the deep voice of death replied— But only in the grave. L. E. L.

Song - I have a summer gift

Literary Gazette, 14th May, 1825, Page 316

ORIGINAL POETRY. SONG.

I have a summer gift, A sunny gift for thee: See this white vase, where blooms A beautiful rose tree.

And on its crimson leaves Your heart must moralize, For love a lesson takes Of every leaf that dies.

First you will prize the gift In all its scented pride; Its newness then will pass, And 'twill be flung aside.

Then autumn rains will stain Its bloom with a dark token; The plant will perish then, And the white vase be broken.

Will not Love's tale be told In the fate of the rose tree! Such was at first your love, Then your neglect of me. L. E. L.

Portrait 1

Literary Gazette, 4th June, 1825, Page 363

ORIGINAL POETRY. PORTRAITS. 1.

She leant her head bowed down upon her hand, A delicate small hand, with a slight flush Of red inside, as it had prest her cheek And stolen its blush; that cheek was very pale: 'Twas not all sickness, sadness, or deep thought, But as it mingled each and all of them. Health were too rude a gift for her slight form; And for her sadness,—'twas not that which springs From evil fortune, sorrow, or disgust, But that which ever waits upon deep thought. Her dark hair was just parted on her brow, Careless, yet graceful, for it suited well A face which seemed not made for vanity; And eloquent words were passing; and at times Her eyes were raised and lighted up; they struck Upon her spirit's own fine chords; at last She spoke—her voice was low and tremulous— With that beseechingness of tone and air Which is a woman's own peculiar charm. Oh! never should a woman's words be more Than sighs which have found utterance. L. E. L.

Portrait 2

Literary Gazette, 4th June, 1825, Page 363

2.

His brow was like the marble, which the sun Hath in meridian splendour shone upon, Whitening away its every earthly stain; With not a colour save one azure vein; Too clear for health, to show that life was there, Else it had been too statue-like, too fair: And there were sunny curls; they were too bright, Too like, alas! that mockery of light In summer noontide hours—such as is thrown O'er the pale whiteness of the funeral stone. His mouth was feminine in loveliness, But that its scornful smile could well express Proud and high feelings ; and his voice was low, Those tones that to the heart directly go, And cannot be forgotten: he seemed one Who knew how dearly happiness is won; Happiness! pleasure I should rather say, Happiness never made on earth a stay— But he is in the grave—the early grave, Which ruined hopes, and withered feelings gave. L. E. L.

Song - My own love, my dear love

Literary Gazette, 4th June, 1825, Page 363

SONG.

My own love, my dear love, The tears were in my eyes, When last I kiss'd thy forehead pale, And drank thy lingering sighs.

The moon shone on the blue sky, And her light fell on thee; I bade thee swear by that light An oath of faith to me.

I stood beside a fountain. And in its silver wave I saw my cheek was crimson, By the shadow that it gave;

I'm again beside that fountain, And the moon shines on my face. And imaged in that mirror, Is every feature's trace.

But the summer rose is faded By the many tears I've wept, And, oh! it is the token How thy vow of faith was kept. L. E. L.

Farewell

Literary Gazette, 11th June, 1825, Page 379

ORIGINAL POETRY. FAREWELL.

One word, altho' that word may pass Almost neglected by; With no more care than what the glass Bears of a passing sigh:

One word to breathe of love to thee, One low, one timid word, To say thou are beloved by me— But, rather felt than heard.

I would I were a favourite flower, Within thy hand to pine; Life could not have a dearer power Than making such fate mine.

I would I were a tone of song, Upon thine ear to die; A rose's breath, that, borne along, I might mix with thy sigh.

I do not wish thy heart were won;— Mine own, with such excess, Would, like the flower beneath the sun, Die with its happiness.

I pray for thee on bended knee; But not for mine own sake; My heart's best prayers are all for thee— It prays, itself to break.

Farewell! farewell! I would not leave A single trace behind: Why should a thought of me to grieve, Be left upon thy mind?

I would not have thy memory dwell Upon one thought of pain; And sad it must be, the farewell Of one who loved in vain.

Farewell! thy course is in the sun. First of the young, the brave: For me, my race is nearly run, And its goal is the grave. L. E. L.

Fragment - Gleamings of poetry, if I may give

Literary Gazette, 18th June, 1825, Page 396

ORIGINAL POETRY.

FRAGMENTS - FlFTH SERIES.

Gleamings of poetry, if I may give That name of passion, beauty, and of grace, To visionings like these, oh! if not sweet To others, yet how very sweet to me. Fancies that gather in the silent hour, When I have watched the stars write on the sky In characters of light; have seen the moon Come like a veiled beauty from the east, While, like a hymn, the wind swelled on mine ear, Telling soft tidings of the rose: or when My heart has drunk sweet music, whose low tones Were as Love's own; when I have closed some page, Whose tale made sorrows lovelier than smiles. And imaged to myself all phantasies That wait on love; thought on its many griefs, Been jealous and forsaken, slighted, wronged, Until almost each mood became mine own;— Or when, before the painter's glorious works, I have bowed down in my idolatry: These are the thoughts to which my soul has turned, When cold neglect or scorn have wrung or searched. Oh, there are moments when my heart has dreamed Of things which cannot be—the bright, the pure, That all of which my heart can only dream. And I have mused upon my gift of song, And deeply felt its beauty, and disdained The pettiness of praise to which, at times, My soul has bowed; and I have scorned myself For that my cheek could burn, my heart could beat At idle words. And yet, it is in vain For the full heart to press back every pulse Wholly upon itself. Aye, fair as are The dreams that bless a poet's solitude: There must be something more for happiness— They seek communion. But, no more of this. Yet such wild snatches of my lute belong To hours like these, when that impassioned thoughts Glance o'er my spirits—thoughts that are like Light, Or Love, or Hope, in their effects.

Fragment - My heart is as a grave

Literary Gazette, 18th June, 1825, Page 396

My heart is as a grave, Where Hope and Love lie sleeping; With its dark thoughts like cypress, Watching and weeping.

Yet, flowers are on that grave, Albeit sad they be; And hidden treasures in it. Sweet memories of thee.

My heart is as a gem, Sullied and broken, But bearing signs that make it still A precious token.

Thy image has been there; Nothing can quite efface The beauty of the spot Which has been thy resting place:

As that garden of the East, In itself no longer fair, Has yet perfume on its beds, For the rose has once bloomed there.

8

Fragment - Now for the gay, the cold, the free

Literary Gazette, 18th June, 1825, Page 396

Now for the gay, the cold, the free, To suit mine altered mood— Oh, any thing but thoughts of thee, Or aught but solitude.

And surely, amid mirth and light, My spirit back may fling The clouds before its upward flight, The weight upon its wing.

For the first time I threw aside In anger my loved lute; When before, ever, had I tried My chords, and found them mute.

I sought the lighted hall, but there The spell still on me lay; Brightness and song came on the air, They drove it not away.

My step lagged in the saraband; Unheard, gay words passed by; The flowers dropt from my listless hand, The tears rushed to mine eye.

A shadow o'er my spirit came; It was in vain I strove. What was it? My heart nam'd a name: I strove no more—'twas Love.

Fragment - Oh, no, my heart is given

Oh, no, my heart is given To other dreams, than those Like the first fresh colours Upon the early rose.

They are not dreams of hope; For hope has been to me, In its pleasure and its pain. What again it cannot be.

My dreams are not of wealth ; A gold or silver mine, Or Oman's bay of pearls, Cannot win one wish of mine.

Nor yet are they of fame; Too well I know the fate That is the high one's lot, To be bright and desolate.

But all my dreams are turned To one single star above: I name life's most fatal one, Name I not that of Love!

Fragment - Forget thee—I may not forget

Literary Gazette, 18th June, 1825, Page 396

Forget thee—I may not forget, But yet my heart may turn From the shrine of its early god, Another faith to learn.

Another altar may be raised, Another idol be; But can I ever feel for them What I have felt for thee!

The convert, who, with opened eyes, Has learnt to know the truth; Will never memory recall His creed of early youth!

Thus I, altho' I know how false The worship that I paid, Must still regret the early zeal Which truth of falsehood made. L. E. L.

The Almond Tree

Literary Gazette, 25th June, 1825, Page 413

ORIGINAL POETRY. THE ALMOND TREE.

Fleeting and falling, Where is the bloom Of yon fair almond tree? It is sunk to its tomb.

Its tomb, wheresoever The wind may have borne The leaves and the blossoms, Its roughness has torn.

Some there are floating On yon fountain's breast,— Some line the moss Of the nightingale's nest,—

Some are just strewn O'er the green grass below, And there they lie stainless, As winter's first snow.

Yesterday, on the boughs They hung scented and fair; To-day, they are scattered The breeze best knows where.

To-morrow, those leaves Will be scentless and dead, For the kind to lament And the careless to tread.

And is it not thus With each hope of the heart? With all its best feelings Thus will they depart.

They'll go forth to the world On the wings of the air, Rejoicing and hoping, But what will be there.

False lights to deceive, False friends to delude, Till the heart, in its sorrow, Left only to brood;---

Over-feeling crushed, chilled, Sweet hopes ever flown; Like that tree, when its green leaves And blossoms are gone. L. E. L.

The Slave Ship

Literary Gazette, 20th August, 1825, Page 541

[It has been the good fortune of the Literary Gazette to introduce several young poets to the public, whose talents have speedily procured them fame of a high and permanent order. We this week (we are persuaded) begin a new career of the same kind; and in this belief beg to recommend the signature of "Iole" to the attention of our readers.— Ed. L. G.]