Letitia Elizabeth Landon

“ How sweet a memory too remains! though dead
The green leaves, and decayed the stem, yet still
The spirit of fragrance lingers, loth to leave
Its dear abode. Just so love haunts the heart,
Though withered, and to be revived no more. ”

“ I read his history wrong. In early youth,
When hopes and pleasures flit like butterflies
Around our pleasant spring, had Edward loved,
And sought in Marion's deep blue eyes his world,—
Loved with the truth, the fervour of first love,
That delicate bloom which can come o'er the soul
But only once. ”

“ A ceaseless fire should be,
Burning by day, burning by night,
Kept like a thought of thee.
But I am powerless and must flee;—
That e'er a time should come,
When we should shun our own sweet land,
And seek another home! ”

“ Came to the convent; with rejoicing wonder
He marked how like an unknown mine, whose gold
Gathers in silence, had young Guido's mind
Increased in lonely richness; every day
New veins of splendid thought sprang into life. ”

“ For that lone boat was filled with wounded men,
Bearing them to the hospital,—and then
That aged Woman saw her Son. She prayed,
And gained her prayer, that she might be his nurse,
And take him home. He lived for many days.
It soothed him so to hear his mother's voice,
To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses,
The roses that were gathered one by one
For him by his fond parent nurse; the last
Was placed upon his pillow, and that night,
That very night, he died! And he was laid
In the same church-yard where his father lay,—
Through which his mother as a bride had pass'd. ”

“ The veins shone through them, shaded by the braids,
Just simply parted back, of the dark hair,
Where grief's white traces mocked at youth. A flush,
As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her cheek,
Then lingered there for ever, looked like health
Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip,
Like the rich crimson of the evening sky,
Brightest when night is coming. ”

“ I know not which is the most fatal gift,
Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled
By stars of bright aspect and evil influence. ”

“ He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand
Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his lids
Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dreamt
That a fair creature came and kissed his brow,
And bade him follow her: he knew the look,
And rose. Awakening, he found himself
Kneeling before the portrait:—'twas so fair
He deemed it lived, and prest his burning lips
To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,—
Young Guido died beside his masterpiece! ”

“ His shafts all loose and his bow unbent;
Many a white plume torn and red,
Bright curls rent from the graceful head,
Helmet and breast-plate scattered around,
Lie a fearful show on the well-fought ground ”

“ Was placed where full the sun-beams fell;—what deep,
Simple morality spoke in those hands,
Going their way in silence, till a sound,
Solemn and sweet, made their appeal to Time,
And the hour spoke its only warning!—Strange
To note how mute the soft song of the wren,
Whose nest was in that old elm-tree, became
When the clock struck: and when it ceased again,
Its music like a natural anthem breathed. ”

“ Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is
To have the bosom made a paradise
By thee, life lighted by thy rainbow smile!—
Edward lived in one feeling, one that made ”

“ Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap
Was every cottage round;—
I listened, but I could not hear
One single human sound; ”

“ Even in childhood's innocence of pleasure
Lives that destroying spirit, which in time
Will waste, then want, the best of happiness. ”

“ Yet high o'er their ranks is their white banner borne,
While beneath droops the foeman's, blood-stained and torn.
Said not that young Warrior thus it should be
When he talked to his Edith of victory?
Yet, Maiden, weep o'er thy loneliness,
Is not yon dark horse riderless?
She flew to the gate,—she stood there alone,—
Where was he who to meet her had flown?
The dirge grew plain as the troop came near,—
They bear the young Chieftain cold on his bier!
⁠L. E. L.
↑ This poem appears in The Improvisatrice and Other Poems (1824) as 'The Warrior. ”

“ Just two or three sweet chords, that seemed
An echo of thy tone,—
The cushat's song was on the wind
And mingled with thine own. ”