Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839

Title Page and Preface

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Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher’s Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839 compiled by Peter J. Bolton

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Table of Contents

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Farewell | 4

The Farewell

SELIM AND ZULEIKA.

Artist: H. Andrews - Engraved by: H. T. Ryall

THE

DRAWING ROOM SCRAP-BOOK.

THE FAREWELL.

I DARE not look upon that face, My bark is in the bay, Too much already its soft grace Has won from me delay. A few short hours, and I must gaze On those sad eyes no more, A dream will seem the pleasant days Past on this lonely shore.

I love thee not—my heart has cast Its inward life away; The many memories of the past Leave little for to-day. Thou art to me a thing apart From passion, hope, or fear; Yet ’tis a pleasure to my heart To know thou art so dear.

It shows me I have something left Of what youth used to be; The spirit is not quite bereft That dreams of one like thee. I know there is another hour, When I have left this isle, When there will be but little power In thy forgotten smile.

When other eyes may fling their gleams Above my purple wine; But little shall I heed the dreams I once could read in thine. Yet not the less soft—gentle—kind— Thy presence has renewed What long I thought was left behind, Youth’s glad but softened mood.

Thy heart it is untouched and pure— I wish it not for mine; Too feverish and insecure Would be such world-worn shrine. For thou dost need such quiet home As might befit the dove, Where green leaves droop, and soft winds come, Where peace attends on love.

I doubt if I shall gaze again Upon that tranquil brow; I turn to yonder glittering main, Impatient for my prow. Battle and revel, feast and fight, Spread o’er life’s troubled sea: Then where will be the calm delight That here entranceth me?

When other names that are as sweet, Perhaps have been more dear, Shall make gay midnight moments fleet Unlike the midnights here. When they shall ask for pledge or song, I shall not name thy name; For other thoughts to them belong Than at thy charming came.

Thy pensive influence only brought The dreams of early years, What childhood felt—what childhood thought— Its tenderness—its tears! Farewell! the wind sets from the shore, The white foam lights the sea. If Heaven one blessing have in store, That blessing light on thee!

Agnes

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TO AGNES. Artist: J. Wood - Engraved by: J. J. Jenkins

AGNES.

It is his hand—it is his words— Too well I know the scroll, Whose style, whose order, and whose shape Are treasured in my soul.

For months I only asked to see One line of his, in vain; Alas ! its presence brings to me But only added pain.

A fearful thing, the granted wish— The very shape it takes, By some strange mockery of our hope, Another misery makes.

Day after day, the hour went by, And never letter came; Or rather, every letter else But that which bore his name.

I wearied Heaven with my prayers, I wasted life with tears, While every morning brought me hopes, And every evening fears.

How often have I said to friends, Who sought to warn or cheer, And told the folly of a love, So desperate and so dear.

How often have I said, I know The madness of the dream, That flings its fate on one frail bark, Alone on life’s dark stream.

That knows one only hope on earth, One hope in heaven above, That asketh not for happiness, And only asks for love.

I loved—must love him—that ’twas vain To reason or to chide— That life, unless it gave me him, Could nothing give beside.

Ah! never till it loves, the heart Is conscious of its powers; What knows the undeveloped spring Of summer’s golden hours?

I saw him—and my inmost soul Its stamp, his image, took; The passion of a lifetime sprang Upon a single look.

A sudden and a strange delight Seemed eager at my heart, A childlike pleasure, which to all Its gladness must impart.

I found a thousand charms in life Till then life never wore! I marvelled, in my deep content, I had been sad before.

I never knew what music was Until his voice I heard; And never beat my heart so fast As at his lightest word.

I would have rather been his slave Than reigned alone his queen; He was my life—and wanting him What would the world have been?

He shared the dream, or seemed to share— Days, weeks, and months passed by. Never more perfect happiness Was seen beneath the sky.

We parted—not in doubt or fear— I wondered he could part; And the first sense of misery Awakened in my heart.

I listened till I heard his step Pass from the closing door; The pang of death can but be like The pang that then I bore.

Time measures many hours; for me, He measured long and slow; I thought the night would never end, The day would never go.

I took no other note of time, Than when his letters came. How often did I ask of them, Ah! does he feel the same?

A letter is an anxious thing, Made up of hopes and fears; And still we question does it mean More than at first appears.

It never satisfies the heart— We ask for something more. Alas! we miss the loving eyes That looked love’s truth before.

He ceased to write—day after day I waited, and in vain; Fears that were fancies turned to truth— He never wrote again.

Words—what are words?—I have no words To tell of my despair. If ever death was felt in life, Look in my heart—’twas there.

The summer past—the autumn past— For all a world so wide, I would not live those hours again— I would that I had died.

Again I saw the well-known hand, How my heart beat to see! And can such letter be from him, And can such be to me?

I will not say, where are the words That once I used to find? He may be changed—he may be cold— How can he be unkind?

True love hath many enemies Upon this weary earth, Who cannot bear that others share The light be giveth birth.

Doubts, fancies, fears, and jealousies, These are the ghosts whose power Scaring the spirit with affright, Is on an absent hour.

There has been long and strange neglect, And cold harsh words are here, And yet an inward secret hope Disputeth with my fear.

It is my deep entire love, Fond, fervent, and alone, Apart from all life’s lighter change That answers for his own.

He cannot be so much beloved, And yet not love again; Strong is the subtle sympathy That bindeth such a chain.

My life is flung upon a cast, To lose it were to die. Ah! let me only hear his voice, Ah! let me meet his eye.

We then were happy—fancies, fears, Will vanish when we meet; I know that we shall meet again— I know it will be sweet.

Thou lovest me—I know thou dost— Despite this cold changed line; The instinct strong in my own heart Assureth me of thine.

The Gathering of the Chieftains at Beteddein

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BETEDDEIN, PALACE OF THE PRINCE OF THE DRUSES, DER-EL-KAMAR IN THE DISTANCE. Artist: W. H. Bartlett - Engraved by: W. Floyd

THE GATHERING OF THE CHIEFTAINS AT BETEDDEIN.

THE PALACE OF THE PRINCE OF THE DRUSES.

They come from the mountains, in thousands they come— There breatheth no trumpet, there beateth no drum: They march in such silence as suiteth the dead, Their herald the thunder that echoes their tread.

The sun is midway in his morning advance, His beams kindle musket, and sabre, and lance; While beneath each white turban flows down the long hair; For the locks of the Druse are, like northern locks, fair.

They sweep like a torrent the far mountain-side, Wild and steep is the path which these warriors ride; But the foot in the stirrup, the hand on the rein, To them the hill-side is the same as the plain.

Frail and faint is the Emir who leadeth them on, His heart has not failed, but his prowess is gone; Yet he comes in a litter,* due homage to yield To the Pasha, who gathers his force for the field.

In Ibrahim’s cause no man may be slack, Wo, wo to the coward who turneth him back; His head to the vulture, his roof to the flame, Were the doom that would wait on himself and his name.

How gallant they look in their gathered array! While turban and housing reflect the noon-ray. Afar are their foes, and the field is before— It will know them as victors, or know them no more!

"The palace of the Emir Beshir, the sovereign of Lebanon, is a costly edifice, commanding a prospect of the valley and town of Deir-el-Kamar, with a distant view of the sea. When Ibrahim Pasha was about to march into Syria, his ally, the Emir, sent his summons throughout the whole range of Lebanon, and the mountaineers immediately obeyed the call. On former occasions, the Sheikh Beshir, or Druse chief, was general of the army, but the Emir, in this instance, exhibited his zeal in the cause of Ibrahim, by accompanying his troops, on their march, to Damascus, borne in a litter. The subjects of the Emir are Druses and Christians, both warlike, both attached to their prince, who is a Christian. They are perhaps the only people who do not love music: they possess no musical instruments, and march to battle without trumpet, pipe, or song."

Thomas Moore, Esq.

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THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.. {|align="center"

| Artist: F. Sieurec - Engraved by: G. H. Adcock

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THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

Moore’s name is a history in itself. Is there a single reader of poetry, to whom "Lalla Rookh" and the "Irish Melodies" are not familiar as household words?

If Titania, just wakened from dreams which the rose, Flung, coloured and fragrant, around her repose, Yet, haunted by fancies, should ask for a song, To bear the soft hours of the noontide along—

'Tis thy lute that should keep the bright fairy from sleeping, The sea-shell had never such tones in its keeping; Though in its pale chamber of pearl was the birth Of the earliest music that breathed over earth.

The falling of fountains—the slight summer rain— The voice of the dove, were less sweet than thy strain; Till stirred with delight, would her exquisite wings Beat time on the west wind, to echo thy strings.

But yet to the ear of the fairy, unknown Were half the deep music that dwells in thy tone: The patriot’s hope, and the minstrel’s despair, To the human heart vibrate—their dwelling is there.

Thy song has its sunshine—perhaps to that sun It owes half the loveliest wreaths it has won. It still lofty hopes and sad thoughts has betrayed— Where on earth is the sunshine that flingeth no shade?

Thou wert not "the wild wind"* that waked for a while The music and murmur of "Erin's green isle;" Ah! no: to thy country thy numbers first brought The burst of strong feeling—the purpose and thought.

From Memnon's dark statue ’twas morning’s glad light That wakened the melody sleeping through night; So the soul of thine island arose at thy line, And to wish for her welfare is wishing for thine.

"Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee,

The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long, When proudly, my own island harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song. If the heart of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbbed at thy song, ’twas thy glory alone; I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over— And all the wild sweetness I waked was thine own."

Jacob Blessing Ephraim and Manasseh

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JACOB BLESSING THE CHILDREN OF JOSEPH. Artist: J. Franklin - Engraved by: G. Presbury

JACOB BLESSING EPHRAIM AND MANASSEH.

"And Joseph took them both, Ephraim in his right hand towards Israel’s left hand, and Manasseh in his left hand towards Israel’s right hand, and brought them near unto him. And Israel stretched out his right hand, and laid it upon Ephraim’s head, who was the younger, and his left hand upon Manasseh’s head, guiding his hands wittingly; for Manasseh was the first-born. And he blessed Joseph, and said, God, before whom my fathers Abraham and Isaac did walk, the God which fed me all my life long unto this day, the Angel which redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads."—Genesis, chap. xiviii. ver. 13, et seq.

The old man’s head is white with age, Weary has been his pilgrimage; Yet "few and evil" were the years Spent amid our vale of tears.

At his side there is his son, He so long unlooked upon; And a stately chief is he Whom the father cannot see.

Two young children with soft hair Bright as locks of childhood are, Kneel with sweet uplifted eyes, Touched with infantine surprise—

Wondering, as they look above, Who is he that claims their love. Yet familiar seems the prayer, Words from childhood heard are there.

Earnest is the mother’s gaze— Hath she gone to other days, When the father of her child Was betrayed—oppressed—exiled?

Weak the old man’s voice and low, Through her soul it seems to go. Piercing many a future hour With the prophet’s mighty power.

Peace upon each spirit came, As he blessed them in God’s name; Holy are the words and high,— And the old man turns to die.

The Sisters

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THE SISTERS. Artist: J. Haytor - Engraved by: J. Thomson

THE SISTERS.

The morning light is in their hair, Golden as ever sunbeams were; The morning light is in their eyes, Azure as ever were the skies:

And every thing in each sweet face Is touched with gladness and with grace; The tones are such as might beseem The colours of a noontide dream;

Some dream, that from external things Borrows the hues that light its wings, And some young sleeper’s head is laid On violets in a pleasant shade.

So like they are—as roses grow Self-same upon the self-same bough, While just some slight shades intervene, To mark a change more felt than seen—

As like they are—as nature, loth To make a difference, modelled both To the same shape—it was so fair That not a grace was left to spare.

With the same fantasy she hung Like music upon either tongue; And when their silver laughter came, Whose sweet laugh was it, none might name.

So much for every outward sign.— The inward world hath deeper shrine; And never beating heart was known Without a likeness of its own.

Only in face the same—each heart Had a sweet empire kept apart, Change infinite asserts its claim— Like—lovely—loved,—but not the same.

Colgong on the Ganges

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ROCKS AT COLGONG ON THE GANGES. Artist: J. M. W. Turner R. A. - Engraved by: E. Goodall

COLGONG ON THE GANGES.

A lonely tomb,—and who within it sleepeth None knows: old Time hath many secret things. But there her rosy tears the Evening weepeth, And there the Morn her early sunshine flings.

For ever glideth on that lovely river; Laden with early wreaths the creepers twine, While, like the arrows from a royal quiver, Golden the glancing sunbeams o’er them shine.

Oh, outward world, how beautiful thy seeming! How lavish in thy luxury! how fair! A thousand blossoms light the thickets, teeming With future glories for the kindling air.

Yet less the prodigal loveliness enchanteth, With all the passing hours from summer win; Less is the human spirit by it haunted Than by some link that wakes the world within.

The Hindoo gathered of the purple flowers— What needed he?—A garland for his head?— Not so—he asketh from the summer hours A tribute for the unforgotten dead.

And not in vain that fragrant wealth is scattered: For lofty thoughts and noble, haunt the grave. The selfish chain of actual life is shattered, And higher thoughts higher existence crave.

It is the past that maketh the ideal, Kindling the future with its onward ray, And o’er a world that else would be too real, Flinging the glory of the moral day.

The melancholy marking the Hindoo character is especially shown in the picturesque sites chosen for their tombs. Strangers will scatter flowers over the dust that, for them, has not even a name. The tomb on the summit of the rocks at Colgong is treated with that tender respect which in India is always the portion of the dead.—"These picturesque rocks, the occasional habitation of a Fakeer, occur at about a day’s journey below Jangbera, on the Ganges, in the midst of romantic and varied scenery. They are esteemed sacred by the Hindoo devotees, and have been sculptured with rude effigies of their gods."

Louise, Duchess of La Valliere

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LOUISE, DUCHESS OF LA VALLIERE. Afterwards Sister Louisa of the Miséricordia in the Convent of the Carmelites Artist: E. T. Parris - Engraved by: H. Robinson

LOUISE, DUCHESS OF LA VALLIERE.

Louisa Frances de la Baume le Blanc, Duchess de la Vallière, favourite of Louis XIV. descended from the ancient noble family of De la Baume, was lady of honour to Henrietta of England, wife of the Duke of Orleans. For two years she cherished a secret affection for the King, who finally placed her in the possession of power, which she only exercised for benevolent objects, her conduct never contradicting her gentle disposition. Superseded in the affections of Louis by Madame de Montespan, she retired, at the age of twenty-eight years, into a Carmelite convent hear Paris, where she assumed the name of "Sister Louisa de la Miséricorde," and died there in 1710. She is the author of "Reflexions sur la Miséricorde de Dieu.—The Abbé Choisi applies to her figure this verse of Fontaine, “Grace that charm’d still more than 'beauty:'"—Madame de Sevignè bestowed on her the appellation of "the humble violet:"—Madame de Genlis has founded a romance on the events of her life; and Lebrun executed a penitent Magdalen, the face of which is from her portrait.

Alone—again alone—ah! let me kneel In prayer, or rather, penitence, to heaven. Yet dare I pray for love that still I feel Sin, and yet ask that sin to be forgiven?

I kneel to pray–I only pray for him, His coldness more than my own fault bewailing; Night after night my weary eyes are dim With vain fond tears o’er passion unprevailing.

My love no longer makes his happiness, That happiness of which my love thought only; Back on my heart let its emotions press, Not their withdrawal that will leave him lonely.

I could not bear his wretchedness–my own Is but the bitter penalty of loving As I have loved–flung at an idol’s throne, With the deep voice within the soul reproving.

The shadow darkens round me of my fate, I hear the choir upon the midnight swelling; There closes on me the eternal grate, Where banished and where broken hearts are dwelling.

Ah! but for him, how glad I were to seek The peace the holy convent cell possesses! To draw the veil above my cold, pale cheek, To shred from this bowed head the golden tresses!

In the pale Carmelite would be no trace Of guilty beauty or of guilty splendour; There might long years with many tears efface Love still too passionate and still too tender.

Perhaps this grief is merciful, and sent To win me from a cold and changed affection, In vain—though hope its sunny wealth hath spent, Love needs it not—it lives on recollection.

I know that I deserve what I endure; But harsh it is when such a blow is given By him for whom I’d die, could that secure One joy on earth, or win one hope from heaven.

Too utterly beloved! too much adored, Since first beneath thy eagle glance I trembled! What griefs have swelled my sorrow’s silent hoard! How many secret tears have I dissembled!

Ah! never yet the heart of woman knew Love more intense—life had but one emotion. My God! to thee had this scorned heart been true, Not so had been repaid its deep devotion.

I never could have left him, had I left Within his soul the agony of parting; But I shall be the only one bereft— Only within my eyes the tears are starting.

How have I hung upon a single look! How has a single word disturbed my sleeping! Each hour its colour from thy greeting took— What days for thee have passed away in weeping!

And thou art changed to me—thou for whose sake My soul has perilled all it should have cherished. Ah! dare I to the quiet convent take The human love, that should long since have perished?

God will forgive what man may well despise: The moral step may turn aside and falter; But there is pity in the azure skies, And there is hope on that eternal altar.

I will take with me prayers and tears—if love Yet lingers in the heart I cannot harden; It will but raise a suppliant look above, That looks beyond the grave to ask for pardon.

Long penitence may set the worn one free— Oh, my lost spirit! make this last endeavour; Thanks for thy coldness, Louis, but for thee I had not borne to say, Farewell for ever!

Hindoo Temples on the Mountain-Lake of Aboo

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MOUNTAIN TEMPLES, LAKE OF ABOO. Artist: H. Melville - Engraved by: E. Benjamin

HINDOO TEMPLES ON THE MOUNTAIN-LAKE OF ABOO.

Aboo Gurgh is a mountain-lake in the province of Guzerat, 5000 feet above the level of the sea, in which the Suruswuttee river has its source. It is surrounded by numerous marble temples, of high antiquity, the principal of which is dedicated to Mahadeo, and the district itself is held in the utmost veneration by the Hindoos. "The Olympus of India, the celebrated Aboo, is the source of the tribe of Chohaun Rajpoots. There are no temples in India which can for a moment compete with these, either in costliness of materials or beauty of design."

Grindlay’s India

From the hills they descend, as wild as the river Which spring hath unloosed, like a shaft from its quiver; With light on its waters, and foam on its banks, So gather these free waves—so gather these ranks.

There is gold on the housings, and gold on the rein That checks the bold courser they guide to the plain. More precious by far to the warriors are The matchlock they carry, the sabre they bear.

Red, red is the turban that girdles their brow— More redly the blood of their foemen shall flow. Free the wing of the heron, that wave white at its side, More free are the Rajpoots to battle who ride.

They have kept their old hills unsubdued by a foe— There is death and defeat in the country below; But the Rajpoots have kept their ancestral hills Untrod, like their snows—and unchained, like their rills.

The Moslem sweeps on with his banner of green, And ruins have marked where the crescent has been; But here the sole crescent that ruleth on high Is where the young moon first appears in the sky.

Sail down by the Jumna, and what will ye find But the horsetail and crescent, that sweep on the wind? The Ottoman conqueror rules to the sea, But not o’er these mountains— the fearless and free.

No prayer writ in gold from the wall is effaced— No altar is levelled—no shrine is defaced: The sons of Mahomet all else may subdue, Bur safe, ‘mid their clouds, are the heights of Aboo.

Court of a Turkish Villa

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COURT OF A TURKISH VILLA NEAR DAMASCUS. Artist: W. H. Bartlett - Engraved by: J. Tingle

COURT OF A TURKISH VILLA.

NEAR DAMASCUS.

In the midst a fountain, Singeth day and night, Each small wave a mirror For the changing light. Now the golden sunshine, Softened by the boughs, Which a doubtful passage To the light allows: Or the moon seems lingering near, As she paused the words to hear Of the tales Arabian, The old Arabian Nights.

On the wind a murmur Seems to float along, Soft as is the music Of remembered song. Bringing at the moment All that dwelt apart In the lone recesses Of the haunted heart. So upon her twilight wings Memory beareth graceful things From the tales Arabian, From the old Arabian Nights.

I can see the garden Treasured from the day, Where the young Aladdin Took his wondering way. Pale the lamp was burning Which the genie swayed; Would that at this moment I could have its aid! All my fancies, now so vain, I might with a wish obtain; From the tales Arabian, The old Arabian Nights.

Far away the island Rises on the deep, Where the fated Agib Found the boy asleep. Soon the old fond father Came with songs and joy Ah! what bears he with him But his murdered boy! Still does Fate in some dark shape, Mock our efforts to escape, As in the tales Arabian, The old Arabian Nights.

Next a summer palace Gleams with sudden light, But the lovely Persian Makes it yet more bright. I can hear her singing In the lonely tower, Mournful—oh, how mournful! Of a happier hour. Still the same star rules above, Sorrow still companions love, As in the tales Arabian, The old Arabian Nights.

Pleasantly these fancies Haunt that fountain's fall, Making its low music Yet more musical. Still around its waters Are adventures told, Wonderful as any That I read of old. Never will their charm depart, Still a portion of the heart Dwells with the tales Arabian, The old Arabian Nights.

Village of Koghera

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VILLAGE OF KOGHERA & DEODAR FOREST. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: W. Floyd

VILLAGE OF KOGHERA.

NEAR THE CHOOR MOUNTAIN.

This Indian village is distinguished for the remarkable variety of beautiful shrubs and evergreens that are indigenous to its mountain vicinity, and for the noble trees called pinus deodora, which not infrequently attain a height of 180 feet. The base of the Choor mountain, which hangs over this sequestered spot, is carpeted with anemones, ranunculuses, violets, cowslip, and daisies, while the adjacent forest-scene is luxuriant in the highest degree. The rhododendron with its scarlet blossoms, is succeeded by oak, walnut, birch, elm and lastly pine. The higher parts of the mountain being snow-clad the greater portion of the year are destitute of verdure. When the snow has dissolved, juniper and currants make their appearance; at an elevation of eleven thousand feet above the sea, the noblest pine-trees in existence rear their heads; and, some thousand feet lower down, a species of bamboo.

She raised her palace of the snows Upon the mighty hills, Whence, in the languid summer, flows A thousand shining rills; And Nature said, This place I’ll take, My deepest solitude to make.

A thousand nameless years went by, As silent as their birth; The clouds that wandered o’er the sky Beheld no change on earth: With one unbroken chronicle, A thousand years left nought to tell.

The winds afar off heard the voice Of man’s tumultuous life; The vultures hurried to rejoice O’er its perpetual strife: With clanging wing and crimson beak, They gathered round, their dead to seek.

The days were loud with war and toil, The nights with fear and care; The dragon’s teeth within the soil Made tumult every where. And senates, met to talk of peace, Aided the turmoil to increase.

The stars went down amid the deep, The sun rose up at morn; There was no quiet for their sleep, The sounds of life were borne Far o’er the inhabitable main, Vexed for man’s warfare or man’s gain.

But here no tumult ever past, The wild wind brought no sound, Saving the mighty music cast By the dark pine-trees round; And Nature had one hour’s repose Amid the silence of the snows.

The foot of man these heights hath sought— What will his coming bring? What hath his coming ever brought The world where he is king? Cares, toils, the universal dower Both of his presence and his power

But yet those cares have high reward, Those toils a noble scope; Each year that passes has unbarred The gates of some great hope; Each height that man can gain brings near The shadow of a higher sphere.

Hope is a solemn creed and true, And still keeps looking on; We only judge what man can do By that which he has done. Hope’s shadow is upon it cast— The prophet’s mirror is the past.

Let none despair, and say, How vain Man’s labour and man’s care! Each hour that passes must sustain The spirit that would dare. For not on an unthankful soil Has man bestowed his time and toil.

Still are his blessings on increase, If they be borne aright: Where there was war, there now is peace— Where darkness, there is light; And science yieldeth, every hour, Those gifts to knowledge which are power.

My glorious country! thou whose feet Are on the mountain’s height. So may thy onward progress meet The morning’s mighty light; Still to thy great advance be given The steps that bring thee nearer heaven.

Ode to Retirement

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RETIREMENT. Artist: E. Corbould - Engraved by: H. Robinson

ODE TO RETIREMENT.

"Nor those alone prefer a life recluse, Who seek retirement for his proper use; To them the deep recess of dusky groves, Or forest where the deer securely roves, The fall of waters and the song of birds, And hills that echo to the distant herds, Are luxuries excelling all the glare The world can boast, and her chief fav’rites share."

Pale maiden, that dost sit with downcast eye, Musing on many things, although thy path Hath now no more the toil another hath. This world and this world’s things thou hast put by, A holier and a calmer lot to try. Beloved art thou of many in their speech, The goal which is the general hope to reach; Yet gained, thy sister Weariness stands nigh. Mistress of mournful thoughts and quiet hours, Given to Memory more than Hope’s domain— Visions and fancies haunt thy dreaming bowers, Where life may linger, but may not remain. Only a shelter art thou on our road, But never meant for mortal man’s abode.