Landon in The Literary Gazette

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Landon in The Literary Gazette 1824

Poems in The London Literary Gazette during the year 1824 by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) compiled by Peter J. Bolton

Contents

Fragments. 1st Series. Lament for the Past Year

Literary Gazette, 3rd January, 1824, Page 10

ORIGINAL POETRY. FRAGMENTS BY L.E.L. First Series.

Gleamings of poetry,—if I may give That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, In a pale twilight, or a rose-bud morn, Glance o'er my spirit,—thoughts that are like light, Or love, or hope, in their effects.

LAMENT FOR THE PAST YEAR.

Farewell, thou shadowy Year, farewell! My heart feels light that thou art gone; That last star was thy burial light, That passing wind thy funeral moan. Another year? It cannot be, Surely, what thou hast been to me!

Twelve months ago I sat, as now; Glorious was the blue midnight, A glad sound came from many bells, And never shone the stars more bright; I thought the sky, so calm, so clear, Might be an omen of the year.

False sky! false stars! showed they their light But as in mockery to the eye, That sought in their bright page to read A something of its destiny? Why looked they beauty, looked they hope, On such a darkened horoscope!

For, not one warning shadow told How many clouds were on the wind, Of hopes that fell like autumn fruit, Leaving the sapless boughs behind! All that has been may be again, And yet lives in my spirit's pain.

Now there is storm upon the sky. The clouds hang heavy, as with care; The stars have darkened one by one, A moaning sound is on the air; And be the year the worst to me, ’Tis but what I expect should be.

Come, thou new Year ! I doubt thy life Will be such as thy birth has been, Ended as it begun, in tears, A desolate and darkened scene. There is now but one only thing Which I can wish, or thou canst bring.

A deep, a lone, a silent grave, Is all I ask, dark Year, of thee; To others hope and pleasure bring, But only bring the grave to me! The wearied heart, in its despair, Will seek and find a haven there.

Fragments. 1st Series. Love’s Wreath.

Literary Gazette, 3rd January, 1824, Page 10

LOVE'S WREATH.

It is an April wreath: blue violets, Sapphires from a moss mine; pale primroses, Wearing a yellow and forsaken dress, And yet too beautiful to be forsaken; And daisies, simple daisies,—surely love May trace its likeness in the gentle flower That blossoms every where and any how, Bearing alike with storm and shine, with still The same fair summer face,—seen on the grave, The heath, the field, the garden; cowslips, too, Tall and green turrets for the fragrant bells Which the bees love so,—bound with the young leaves Of the sweet briar, sparkling with the rain, Which has called forth an odour like the scent Floating around the coast of Araby, Till the rich sails are heavy with perfume. I have read somewhere, in far Indian lands, That maidens write a whole fond history In braids of leaves and buds, love's best love-letters. And read you thus my history in my wreath: Just as these flowers have in the sunlight sprung To a most sweet existence, so your love Has called my feelings into sunny life; And as the wreath will fall away and fade, When gathered from the green and natural stem, So my heart, severed from its home, your love Would pine and wither.

Fragments. 1st Series. Song - Oh meet me once, but once again

Literary Gazette, 3rd January, 1824, Page 10

SONG.

Oh meet me once, but once again, Beside that old oak tree; It is not much, of all thy vows, To ask but this of thee.

Oh meet me when the evening star Shines on the twilight grey, Just while the lark sings his last song,— I have not much to say.

I know that when to-morrow's sun Lights up the vale again, You'll lead your fair Bride to the church, And cannot meet me then.

But this last evening is your own,— Come to our old oak tree; Surely, dear love, you cannot fear Aught like reproach from me.

No, dearest mine! then pray thee come, When that star lights the sky; I do but ask to pardon thee, To kiss thy lips, and die! L. E. L.

Fragments. 2nd Series. Song - Oh speak not of love

Literary Gazette, 10th January, 1824, Pages 27-28

ORIGINAL POETRY. FRAGMENTS BY L.E.L. Second Series.

Gleamings of poetry,—if I may give That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, In a pale twilight, or a rose-bud morn, Glance o'er my spirit,—thoughts that are like light, Or love, or hope, in their effects.

SONG.

Oh speak not of love As of that which might be, If the love could pass over I now feel for thee.

Oh speak not of falsehood, For it must be thine; I cannot in fancy Dream of it as mine.

I have lived but for one love; If that were no more, Oh never could new love Its likeness restore.

When the lamp of the vestal Had chanced to expire, It might be rekindled By morning sunfire ;

But, love once extinguished, All efforts are vain, There is nothing can brighten Its embers again.

Fragments. 2nd Series. Stanzas - Is it not so?

Literary Gazette, 10th January, 1824, Pages 27-28

STANZAS. Is it not so?

It is a green and sunny place That silent tomb, And over it, with summer grace, The wild flowers bloom;

And shadily that willow-tree Floats on the air; But lift up the smooth sod, and see Its dark things bare:

A blackening corpse, a rank, cold smell, Discoloured bones; And slimy earthworms are what dwell In the damp stones.

And look thus on the human face— Is it not fair? Yet look within the heart, and trace Such foulness there.

Fragments. 2nd Series. The Dream

Literary Gazette, 10th January, 1824, Pages 27-28

THE DREAM.

Farewell! and yet how may I teach My heart to say Farewell to thee? My first young love, the light, the hope, The breath, the soul of life to me!

I had last night a strange wild dream, The very emblem of my love,— I saw a stately eagle's wing Become the refuge for a dove.

And for a while most tenderly The eagle cherished his guest; And never had the dove a home Of happiness like that fond breast.

It was a sight for Love to see That haughty and that gentle bird, Caressing and carest, so soft The mingling murmurs from them heard.

But troubled grew the eagle's crest, And stern and careless his dark eye, And so, regardless of the dove, I marvelled that she did not fly:

Then sudden spread his mighty plumes, And flung the helpless dove away; There on the ground, with broken wing, And soiled and bleeding breast, she lay.

Poor silly bird! if thou hadst flown Before, this fate had not been thine. I wakened, and I thought how soon Such fall, such falsehood, might be mine.

Fragments. 3rd Series. The Forsaken

Literary Gazette, 17th January, 1824, Page 41

ORIGINAL POETRY. FRAGMENTS BY L. E. L. Third Series.

Gleamings of poetry,—if I may give That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, In a pale twilight, or a rose-bud morn, Glance o'er my spirit,—thoughts that are like light, Or love, or hope, in their effects.

THE FORSAKEN.

Oh cast that shadow from thy brow, My dark-eyed love! be glad awhile: Has Leila's song no music now? Is there no charm in Leila's smile?

There are young roses in my hair, And morn and spring are on their bloom; Yet you have breathed their fragrant air As some cold vapour from the tomb.

There stands the vase of crystal light, Veined with the red wine's crimson stains,— Has the grape lost its spell to-night? For there the cup untouched remains.

I took my lute for one sad song, I sang it, tho' my heart was wrung,— The sweet sad notes we've loved so long; Yet heard you not, tho' Leila sung.

I press'd my pale pale cheek to thine,— Tho' it was wet with many tears, No pressure came, to answer mine, No murmur breathed, to soothe my fears.

Ah, silent still? then know I all My fate! And must we part at last? In mercy, gentle Heaven, recall Only the memory of the past!

Never yet did the first June flower Bare purer bosom to the bee, Than that which yielded to Love's power, And gave its sweetest wealth to thee.

'Twas a new life: the earth, the sky, Seemed to grow fairer for thy sake; But this is gone,—oh destiny, My heart is withered, bid it break!

My garden will lie desolate, My flowers will die, my birds will pine; All I once loved I now shall hate, With thee changed every thing of mine.

Oh speak not now, it mocks my heart, How can hope live when love is o'er? I only feel that we must part, I only know—we meet no more!

Fragments. 3rd Series. Indian Song

Literary Gazette, 17th January, 1824, Page 41

INDIAN SONG. Founded on a romantic species of Divination practised by Indian Maidens.

To the moonlit waters of the lake My little bark I gave, And gentle as the jasmin's sigh Was the wind that swept the wave.

I chose the night from many a one, It was so very fair; Scarcely the cocoa's light green plumes Waved on the languid air.

Last year, beneath the summer moon, I planted a young rose, I watered it at the sunrise, And at the evening's close.

I only let one single flower Amid the boughs abide, Soon as they came I culled the heads Of every bud beside.

I shaded it from the hot noon, And from the midnight dew, And fresh, and red, and beautiful, My lonely rosebud grew.

This morning it was in its prime, And then my bark I made Of the green fragrant grass that grows In the bannana's shade.

I made a taper of white wax From my own hive, whose bees Had fed but upon hyacinth bells And on young myrtle trees.

And in the bark that taper stood, Hung with a wreath of green, And in the midst my lovely rose Sat like a fairy queen.

I threw rich spice and scented oils Around the lighted flame, And gave it to the stream, and called Upon Camdeo's name.

My cheek blushed warm, my heart beat high, The bark moved slowly on; There breath'd no wind, there moved no wave, Yet like a thought 'twas gone.

Alas, my bark! Alas, my rose! Yet what could I expect? I sent them on a voyage of love, And when was love not wreck'd?—L. E. L.

Fragments. 4th Series. Untitled - (The Thessalian Fountain)

Literary Gazette, 24th January, 1824, Page 58

ORIGINAL POETRY.

FRAGMENTS BY L. E. L. Fourth Series.

Gleamings of poetry,—if I may give That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, In a pale twilight, or a rose-bud morn, Glance o'er my spirit,—thoughts that are like light, Or love, or hope, in their effects.

1 1 1 1 1 1

A small clear fountain, with green willow trees Girdling it round, there is one single spot Where you may sit and rest, its only bank; Elsewhere the willows grow so thick together: And it were like a sin to crush that bed Of pale and delicate narcissus flowers, Bending so languidly, as still they found In the pure wave a love and destiny; But here the moss is soft, and when the wind Has been felt even through the forest screen,— For round, like guardians to the willows, stand Oaks large and old , tall firs , dark beech , and elms Rich with the yellow wealth that April brings,— A shower of rose leaves makes it like a bed, Whereon a nymph might sleep, when, with her arm Shining like show amid her raven hair, She dreamt of the sweet song wherewith the faun Had lulled her, and awakening from her rest When through the leaves an amorous sunbeam stole And kissed her eyes; the fountain were a bath For her to lave her ivory feet, and cool The crimson beauty of her sleep-warm cheek, And bind her ruffled curls in the blue mirror Of the transparent waters. But these days Of visible poetry have long been past!— No fear that the young hunter may profane The haunt of some immortal; but there still— For the heart clings to old idolatry, If not with true belief, with tenderness,— Lingers a spirit in the woods and flowers Which have a Grecian memory,— some tale Of olden love or grief linked with their bloom, Seem beautiful beyond all other ones. The marble pillars are laid in the dust, The golden shrine and its perfume are gone; But there are natural temples still for those Beautiful though dethroned Deities, Where from green altars flowers send up their incense: This fount is one of them. - - -

Fragments. 4th Series. Song - Take back your wreath, your sunny wreath

Literary Gazette, 24th January, 1824, Page 58

SONG.

Take back your wreath, your sunny wreath, 'Tis mockery to give it me! The summer’s bloom, the summer's breath Are not what should be offered me.

For though those flowers may fade and fall, How very sweet their life has been! And fragrant still the coronal, Though dead the blush and sear the green.

They are perhaps an offering To scatter on my funeral stone; For flowers are not made for the Spring, Which only blight and blast has known.

But take some veil in darkness wove. And fling its shadow o'er my brow, It will be like the cloud which love Has thrown around my past and now!—L. E. L.

Fragments. 5th Series. Light and Shadows.

Literary Gazette, 31st January, 1824, Page 74

ORIGINAL POETRY.

FRAGMENTS BY L.E.L. Fifth Series.

Gleamings of poetry,—if I may give That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, In a pale twilight, or a rose-bud morn, Glance o'er my spirit,—thoughts that are like light, Or love, or hope, in their effects.

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

It spread beneath the summer sky, A green turf, as just meet For lilies and blue violets, And moonlight fairies' feet.

And in the midst a rose-tree grew, Covered with buds and flowers, A crimson cloud of breath and bloom, Like that of evening hours.

I watched the beauty of that rose, Its June-touched bloom, its love-sweet breath, When suddenly I marked how dark Its shadow fell beneath.

Clings darkness to—I sadly thought— The fair in form, the fresh in hue? Alas! there's not that thing on earth So bright but has its shadow too!

Fragments. 5th Series. Remembrance.

Literary Gazette, 31st January, 1824, Page 74

REMEMBRANCE.

That Portrait! aye, it was a lovely face. Those eyes, like violets on which the sun Has looked as favourites; the long dark lash, Sweet twilight to their playfulness; that brow, Open as morning, white as Indian pearl, Shadowed by those light clouds of pale brown hair, Braided by lilies pure as she herself:— It looks just what she was, all youth, all life, All girlish innocence and happiness. We were companions in our youth: we loved With that first love life never quite forgets. We parted,—parted too without a hope! Hope waits on Fortune. After many years I saw my early idol once again: How changed, yet still how very beautiful! Pride sat upon her brow, a reckless scorn Mingled with bitterness in each light word, And sorrow, ill concealed, seemed at her heart: Yet had she wedded, and won rank and wealth, But once we met; how deep the tenderness That softened her so lovely countenance, When, with a voice half music and half sorrow, She gently said, "The seared heart doth not break."

Fragments. 5th Series. The Swan.

Literary Gazette, 31st January, 1824, Page 74

THE SWAN.

I pass'd by a lake in its darkness: It was dark, for upon its breast, In rolling clouds and in shadow, The face of the sky was imprest.

The air was thick and heavy, And the mist hung round like a blight, And the boughs of the trees on the banks Closed round with the closing of night.

But amid the blackening waters Was one bright and beautiful thing,— A swan, which, sailing in beauty, Spread ruffled each snow-white wing.

A sunbeam rested upon her From the only red cloud in the sky, And a flush of crimson glory Lit the waves where that swan sailed by.

Then turned my heart, my beloved one! To sweet thoughts of thine and thee: Such, in the hour of my darkness, Thy beauty has been unto me.

My white Swan, lovely and lonely, Brightening life's sullen tide, Bland light and hope of the bosom Which had nor light nor hope beside!

Fragments. 5th Series. Song - The wreath of green leaves that was bound

Literary Gazette, 31st January, 1824, Page 74

SONG.

The wreath of green leaves that was bound Amid your chesnut hair, Is scattered,— look upon the ground, The leaves are lying there. And some are faded, some are stained, Some crushed, and not one has retained Its sweet and summer share Of graceful shape and fresh green hue, Such as they were when given you.

Around thy heart there is a wreath Of fair hopes fresh and green, Breathed on by young Love's summer breath; A little while, I ween, The green hopes will have died away, As utterly gone to decay As they had never been. The wreath that bound your heart and hair Were made the self-same fate to share.

Your shining curls flow wild on air, Their braiding wreath undone; Your heart lies desolate and bare, Its hope's glad foliage gone. And such the destiny that clings To all earth's fair and fragrant things; And such will be thine own; The wasted heart, the withered tree, Are emblems of thy fate and Thee. L. E. L.

Fragments. 6th Series. The Star.

Literary Gazette, 7th February, 1824, Page 91

ORIGINAL POETRY.

FRAGMENTS BY L. E. L. Sixth Series.

Gleamings of poetry,—if I may give That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, In a pale twilight, or a rose-bud morn, Glance o'er my spirit,—thoughts that are like light, Or love, or hope, in their effects.

THE STAR.

Oh, there are sorrows like blighted leaves, And cares like the web which the spider weaves, And doubts and tears, that claim a part For each pulse that throbs and maddens my heart; Yet still there is one fresh Eden spot, Where sorrows and doubts and cares come not. Yes, love! tho' withered my heart may be, It yet has a gentle place for Thee. I stood on a weary and wandering bark, The heavens above in their midnight were dark, And gloomily spread the mighty sea In the depths of its drear immensity. Yet amid the darkness one sweet star shone, Like an angel of light, most lovely and lone; And like that starbeam, I thought, to me Is the influence sweet that has come from Thee. Yet felt I sad, as I watched that star, And fed on its beauty, to think how far It shone; yet I deemed there might come a day When the spirit should mingle and melt with its ray. It was like an omen; and I hoped, though now Apart with no solace save one dear vow, That the time might come when thy lover should be Where his heart and his soul are, beloved one! with Thee.

Fragments. 6th Series. The Lamp.

Literary Gazette, 7th February, 1824, Page 91

THE LAMP.

Brightly the stars shed their light, Like love on the bosom of night, Each rolls on his course, like a king Come in pride and in triumphing. But brighter the lamp that shines Through yonder lattice of vines.

Thrice glorious that sunstar above, Bright Jove; and the fair Queen of Love And Beauty yet holdeth her reign O'er a glad and a lovely domain; And their rays, like the shivering of spears, Glance in silvery light thro' the spheres. But give me the lamp that shines Through yonder lattice of vines.

By that lamp bends a Maiden fair, Shading off the fresh night air, Lest the gentle flame should decay, Nor brighten her wanderer's way. Around stream her locks in their light, And the rose-cheek and blue eye are bright, Of the Maid by the lamp that shines Through yonder casement of vines.

I am near to the casement now, I can look on her graceful brow, I can feel the light of her eye As she smiles when her love is nigh. Oh brighter to me by far Than the blaze of each glorious star, Is the light of the lamp that shines Through yonder lattice of vines.

Fragments. 6th Series. Romance.

Literary Gazette, 7th February, 1824, Page 91

ROMANCE.

Maiden, listen! thy hunter's horn— Thrice has the wind its echo borne; Should not this our moment of meeting be? Hast thou no answer, maiden, for me? Ah, yes, I can hear thy silvery feet, Like the lute's music, light and sweet; Soft on the air comes the breath of thy sigh, As the odours that tell when the Spring hours are nigh. Invisible, still I should feel thou wert near, Be conscious that something was by me most dear. Oh, haste thee, beloved, I've built thee a bower, Not like the halls of thy father's tower— Where the banners are sweeping o'er helm and o'er plume, And crimson and gold clothe each stately room— Where censers are burning with incense and light— Where winecups of silver are foaming and bright— Where an hundred minstrels sing thee to sleep— While an hundred knights watch o'er those slumbers keep— But my bower is built by an old oak tree, With an ivy and woodbine canopy; And the turf beneath is thickly set With primrose, lily, and violet. The nightingale, love, shall thy minstrel be; And my two dark hounds shall be guards for thee; And for crystal vases of eastern perfume, The wild rose in the freshness of morning shall bloom; And more than all, thou shalt have for thy slave A heart that will beat for thee till in the grave.

Metrical Tales. I. - The Three Wells.

Literary Gazette, 28th February, 1824, Page 139

ORIGINAL POETRY. METRICAL TALES.

1.—THE THREE WELLS—A Fairy Tale.

"J'ai grand regret à la fairie”— Marmontel.

There 's an island which the sea Keeps in lone tranquillity; Filled with flowers which the sun Never yet hath looked upon,— Flowers lighted with the light Left by fairy feet at night; Worshippers of the sweet moon, Veiled from the eye of noon, For, by daylight, bud nor bloom Smiles amid the island gloom. All is desolate and drear, As no spring were in the year: But beneath night's shadowy wing Violets and roses spring; Perfume floats upon the air, Myrtle boughs are waving there; Stars shine in their beauty forth, Meteors glisten from the north, Rode by radiant shapes that seem Creatures made of bloom and beam, With their hair and plumes' gay dyes Glorious as the morning skies. Seldom hath a mortal eye Looked upon their revelry; Yet sometimes, for what is there Love in young hearts will not dare, Lover's step has dared to press That ground's haunted loveliness. When the moon in her blue hall Lights her zenith coronal, On each mystic leaf and flower Lies a spell of true love power: Often have they borne away Rosy leaf and scented spray; Next the heart the charm have worn, Long as true love faith was borne. But as old tradition tells, There are other, deeper, spells In the lone and mystic wells— Spells of strange wild augury Few have had the heart to try.—

She came, or ever the dawning bright Banished in blushes the grey twilight; Like a spirit she seemed to float, As the morning star guided her lonely boat; With her golden hair, like a sunny sail Spread by hope for a favouring gale; With a cheek like the rose, when first the spring Wakes its life of scented languishing; And eyes, to whose dazzling beauty were given The blue and the light of a summer heaven— She sat alone in the boat, as it went Calm thro' the sleep-hushed element.

Now joy thee, Astarte, thy voyage is done, The day is unbroken, the island is won.— She passed thro' a drear and desolate track. Seen dim in the shadow of glimmering rack; A silence and stillness weighed in the air, And the trees in their age stood gaunt and bare; There was not a flower or a leaf on the ground Till she came where some cypresses gathered around; She entered the funeral shade of the dell, And looked on the depth of each haunted well. Thickly around did the tall grass wave, Like the green dank growth that springs on the grave— There it was that the charm must be done. To hide the wells from the beam of the sun, She took the webs of silvery white Herself had wove in the lone moonlight, And threw them o'er, so that not one ray Could lighten their depths with a glimpse of day; And with silent lip, tho' with beating heart, She watched the hours of sunlight depart. The moon rose up, and with it a sound Of low sweet music breathed around; There came a gushing of perfume, For the earth was now covered with bud and bloom. The maiden unveiled each mystic well, And as the light of the moonbeam fell, Sparkled and shone each darkling stream, Like molten silver or diamond gleam. Then down the maiden knelt and prayed At the first well, for its lady's aid, And there up rose a sparkling chain As chanted a soft voice the magic strain:—

First Fairy's Song.

Here are burning brighter gems Than on kingly diadems; Rubies, like the crimson light Seen upon a winter night; Pearls, the whitest that can be Hidden in the deep blue sea; Emeralds, let summer show Greener light; like winter snow Virgin silver, pure and white; Gold, red as the morning light. For the service thou hast done, Shading me from the hot sun, Stores from every Indian mine And Afric river shall be thine.

Oh, this is not what my boon shall be, Gold and gems have no charms for me. Then turned the maid to the second well, And waited the fate of her next tried spell; And up from the water, on air, there played, Of a thousand colours, a mingled braid.

Second Fairy's Song.

I have caught the tints that deck The proud peacock's tail and neck; I have caught the many rays Of the opal's changeful blaze; I have mixed a thousand hues From the rainbow's arch of dews; Here is blent each changeful thing For the wild heart's wandering: For thy cool and pleasant shade, This shall be thy meed, young maid.

Oh! not for me, oh! not for me Is the heartless spell of inconstancy. There yet is a well; one trial more, Sure, that has a better prize in store. She knelt again, and on the well A simple wreath was visible.

Third Fairy's Song.

I have been to the low dell, Where the sweetest violets dwell; I have been to the lone vale, Where there droops the lily pale: Sweet and pure, they are bound With a myrtle bough around— Myrtle, for its leaves are seen Even in the winter green: If true love be sought by thee, Maiden, this thy meed shall be.

My spell is done, my prize is won; True love! thou hast equal none; True love! who could choose for thee Gold or gems or vanity? Where is the spell whose charm will prove, Like the spell of thy charm, true love? L. E. L.

Metrical Tales. II. - The Poisoned Arrow.

Literary Gazette, 6th March, 1824, Pages 154-155

ORIGINAL POETRY. METRICAL TALES. Tale II.— THE POISONED ARROW. Love lives on Hope and Memory.

'Tis an old tale of love and truth We used to read, I scarce know when, And still it brings back to my heart All that my heart was full of then. We read it one blue summer night, Half by lamp, half by moonlight,— An English summer night, thrice fair, For that its loveliness is so rare; Just three or four nights at the full of the moon, When the flower-filled air is breathing of June; Three or four nights that rejoice the year With a dream of light from another sphere. I remember a pink woodbine That hung round the lattice its coral twine; I remember the vine, whose green Shone in the ray like silver sheen; And how through the leaves a sweet air came, For beside grew a rose with a crimson flame Lighting its life, as love lived on its spring; But all are departed or withering. I remember a fond arm placed, Zone of my heart, around my waist; I remember a dark eye that shone, And turned to me, as the tale went on, To look its so gentle sympathies, And ask, Are we not as fond as these? I remember an honey tone,— But that clasp and that look and that voice are gone! Why think I now of them? Oh, woman's heart Treasures the memories that depart

From sterner man,—when will love be Enshrined as in her memory!— Thou wert not false,—I cannot now Reproach thee with one broken vow; I may not say thou art estranged, I rather feel than know thee changed; Thy heart is now in other things Than love's once dear imaginings; The world has claimed thee,—crowds and care Are things in which love has no share; You would but smile now to recall Many sweet vows and gentle fears, Or marvel they were ever felt,— Such change is in a lapse of years. But I have treasured looks and words, Till memory's links are as soft chords. O'er which, if but one breath shall fall, They wake in tones thrice musical. But thou! thou hast forgotten all. Oh this is vain, I cannot bring Again the freshness of our spring.— On to my tale—it will recall All that is from my bosom reft, Bereaved of love's original, ’Tis much to have its picture left. Amid the groves of Lebanon, The scented cedar groves, is one, The very loveliest of all, So clear, so cool, the fountain fall, So gracefully the roses grow, Mirrored in the clear water's flow; So beautiful athwart the boughs Comes morning's rise or evening's close; And when the moon shines forth at night, Or, in her absence, gleaming light Darts from the stars upon the vale, Sings to them the lone nightingale, As an enchanted harp were breaking The calm with its delicious waking. ’Tis strange to find in such a place Aught that resembles human trace; Yet, underneath a cedar's shade, Whose boughs, defying sun or rain, Keep the white marble free from stain, A tomb is placed; a statue there—