Letitia Elizabeth Landon

For my spirit hath left her earthly home And found a nobler dwelling, Where the music of light is that of life, And the starry harps are swelling.

Where do purple bubbles swim, But upon the goblet's brim ? Drink not deep, howe'er it glow Sparkles never lie below.

My heart is like the failing hearth Now by my side, One by one its bursts of flame Have burnt and died.

I numbered years of pain and distress, And but fourteen days of happiness. Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power, Are more than the toys of a passing hour;

Ahmed comes back a conqueror, but what hath he found? The cry of the orphan is loud on his ear, And his eye hath beheld the young bride's bitter tear, And the friend of his youth is left dead on the plain, And the flower of his nobles …

I'm weary, I'm weary. Oh! pleasure is pain When its spell has been broken again and again. I am weary of smiles that are bought and are sold, I am weary of beauty whose fetters are gold, I am weary of wealth—what makes it of me But that …

Beautiful weakness! oh, if weak, That woman's heart should tinge her cheek! 'Tis sad to change it for the strength That heart and cheek must know at length.

What need hath she Of shrine to her divinity? Each fair face is her visible shrine; She hath been, she will be divine.

Dreary it is the path to trace, Step by step of sin's wild race.

The earth was parched, the trees were sear'd, And blasted every branch appear'd; At one end yawned a gloomy cave, Black, as its mouth were that of the grave; And dark, as if the waters of death Were in its depths, rose a well beneath.

Alas! when angry words begin Their entrance on the lip to win; When sullen eye and flushing cheek Say more than bitterest tone could speak; And look and word, than fire or steel, Give wounds more deep,—time cannot heal;

Oh! frail are the many links that are In the chain of affection's tender care,

Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in prayer Unconsciously ; as if prayers had been there, And they moved now from custom.

There stood she, even as a statue stands, With head droop'd downward, and with clasped hands; Such small white hands that match'd her ivory feet, How may they bear that scorching fire to meet?

True love is timid, as it knew its worth, And that such happiness is scarce for earth.

Out on the heartless creed which nulls the claim Upon the heart of kindred, birth, and name.

'T was night, but night which the imperial moon, Regal in her full beauty, turn'd to noon, But still the noon of midnight; though the ray Was clear and bright, it was not that of day;

And Love is like the lightning in its might, Winging where least bethought its fiery flight, Melting the blade, despite the scabbard's guard.

For he had curious colours, that could give The human face so like, it seem'd to live.

It is a charmed ring—this emerald stone Will be a sign, when thou art from me gone. Mark if it changes; if a spot be seen On the now spotless ground of lighted green, Danger is round me; haste thou then to me, Thou know'st how fearless is …

For love is like the breathing wind, That everywhere may entrance find.

It was a summer evening; and the sea Seem'd to rejoice in its tranquillity ; Rolling its gentle waters to the west, Till the rich crimson blush'd upon their breast, Uniting lovingly the wave and sky, Like Hope content in its delight to die.

Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell When foes meet hand to hand,— The shout, the yell, the iron clang Of meeting spear and brand.

Light like the wan blue flames that wave Their death-torch o'er the murderer's grave ; And flickering shapes beset the way, Watching in gloom to seize their prey, Most terrible, for that the eye Wander'd in dim uncertainty ;