Letitia Elizabeth Landon

“ And youth has no chronicle left of its dreaming,
When hope, the sweet alchemist, ruled; and we took
The future on trust, and the present on seeming,
And each old deceit wore a bright and glad look.
Methinks it would make the dark actual less dreary,
Could we call back the feelings we formerly knew;
The path where we loiter for flowers is less weary
Than that which speeds on, the goal only in view.
The heart spends its treasure at once; we should cherish
The thought of our feelings, so live them again ”

“ Till each fine impulse, snail-like shrinks,
Within itself retreating.
Its heartlessness, its cold deceit,
The unkindness of the many—
Till grown ourselves like those we meet,
We are as false as any. ”

“ Twelve more come gradual in their room,
With eager step and hidden face.
Ah! trust them not;—the veil when raised
Will shew but faces ye have known;
Though still from every added round
Something of light and life is flown. ”