Letitia Elizabeth Landon

The bright cloud shone on the river's face, But the death-black waters had not a trace Of the crimson blaze that over them play'd : It seem'd as if a curse were laid On the grass, on the river, the tree, and the flower, And shut them out …

On the horizon is a star, Its earliest, loveliest one by far ; A blush is yet upon the sky, As if too beautiful to die,— A last gleam of the setting sun, Like hope when love has just begun ;

Where on earth is the truth that may vie With woman's lone and long constancy?

Let worldly coldness and care depart, And yield to the spell of the minstrel's art.

'Tis May again, another May, Looking as if it meant to stay ; So many are its thousand flowers, So glorious are its sunny hours, So green its earth, so blue its sky, As made for Hope's eternity.

But not like this is Nature's face, Though even she must bear the trace Of the great curse that clings to all ; Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall :

Oh, what am I, and what are they ? Masquers but striving to deceive Themselves and others ; and believe It is enough, if none shall know The covered mass of care below.

TO-MORROW, to-morrow, thou loveliest May, To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day; Bride of the summer, child of the spring, To-morrow the year will its favourite bring:

He fell as other thousands do, Trampled down where they fall, While on a single name is heap'd The glory gain'd by all. Yet even he whose common grave Lies in the open fields,

It matters not its history; love has wings Like lightning , swift and fatal, and it springs Like a wild flower where it is least expected, Existing whether cherish'd or rejected;

AY, screen thy favourite dove, fair child, Ay, screen it if you may,— Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand Will scare the hawk away.

Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own, But only to the spring and summer known.

The dying chief sprang to his knee, And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully; But his gash'd arm, what is it now? Livid his lip, and black his brow, While over him the slayer stood, As if he almost scorn'd the blood

... oh! love will last When all that made it happiness is past,— When all its hopes are as the glittering toys Time present offers, time to come destroys,—

It was no fancy, he had named the name Of love, and at that thought her cheek grew flame:

Alas, tears are the poet's heritage!

Never, dear father, love can be, Like the dear love I had for thee!

—music's power Is little felt in sunlit hour; But hear its voice when hopes depart, Like swallows, flying from the heart On which the summer's late decline Has set a sadness and a sign;. . . . . .

"There is a steep and lofty wall, Where my warders trembling stand, He who at speed shall ride round its height, For him shall be my hand."

'Tis strange how the heart can create Or colour from itself its fate; We make ourselves our own distress, We are ourselves our happiness.

Oh! why should woman ever love, Trusting to one false star above; And fling her little chance away Of sunshine for its treacherous ray.

'Tis strange with how much power and pride The softness is of love allied; How much of power to force the breast To be in outward show at rest,— How much of pride that never eye May look upon its agony!

Oh! what is memory but a gift Within a ruin'd temple left, Recalling what its beauties were, And then presenting what they are.

There is an indolence in grief Which will not even seek relief. What is the toil, or care, or pain, The human heart cannot sustain? Enough if struggling can create A change or colour in our fate;