Letitia Elizabeth Landon

I LOVED her! ay, I would have given A death-bed certainty of heaven If I had thought it could confer The least of happiness on her!

The scar of fire, the dint of steel, Are easier than Love's wounds to heal.

Pure as the snow the summer sun Never at noon hath look'd upon, — Deep, as is the diamond wave, Hidden in the desart cave, — Changeless, as the greenest leaves Of the wreath the cypress weaves, —

Where is the heart that has not bow'd A slave, eternal Love, to thee: Look on the cold, the gay, the proud, And is there one among them free?

Awakening hope has named the name Of love, or blown its spark to flame. Restlessness, but as the winds range From leaf to leaf, from flower to flower; Changefulness, but as rainbows change, From colour'd sky to sunlit hour.

Oh, love is timid in its birth! Watching her lightest look or stir, As he but look'd and breathed with her. Gay words were passing, but he leant In silence; yet, one quick glance sent,— His secret is no more his own,

Autumn was falling, but the pine Seem'd as it mock'd all change; no sign Of season on its leaf was seen, The same dark gloom of changeless green. But like the gorgeous Persian bands 'Mid the stern race of northern lands,

The first, the very first; oh! none Can feel again as they have done; In love, in war, in pride, in all The planets of life's coronal, However beautiful or bright,— What can be like their first sweet light?

Oh, she had yet the task to learn How often woman's heart must turn To feed upon its own excess Of deep yet passionate tenderness! How much of grief the heart must prove That yields a sanctuary to love!

The cold north wind which bows to earth The lightness of the willow's birth Bends not the mountain cedar trees; Folding their branches from the breeze, They stand as if they could defy The utmost rage of storm and sky.

Alas! that every lovely thing Lives only but for withering,— That spring rainbows and summer shine End but in autumn's pale decline.

Oh, where is there the heart but knows Love's first steps are upon the rose!

'Tis not for Spring to think on all The sear and waste of Autumn's fall: —

Alas! for him whose youthful fire Is vowed and wasted on the lyre,— Alas! for him who shall essay, The laurel's long and dreary way! Mocking will greet, neglect will chill His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill;

For his was now the loveliest part Of the young poet's life, when first, In solitude and silence nurst, His genius rises like a spring Unnoticed in its wandering; Ere winter cloud or summer ray

Oh, softest is the cheek's love-ray When seen by moonlight hours Other roses seek the day, But blushes are night flowers.

Love may be increased with fears, May be fanned with sighs, Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts But without Hope it dies!

And this is Love! Oh! why should woman love; Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope, Happiness, are but things of which henceforth She'll only know the name?

It is a gem which hath the power to show If plighted lovers keep their faith or no : If faithful, it is like the leaves of spring ; If faithless, like those leaves when withering.

He had a power; in his eye There was a quenchless energy, A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that Death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake.

They met with cold words, and yet colder looks: Each was changed in himself, and yet each thought The other only changed, himself the same.

But this is as a dream, — the plough has pass'd Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked On the green twilight of the forest-trees. This Oak has no companion ! - - - -

Violets! — deep-blue violets! April's loveliest coronets! There are no flowers grow in the vale, Kiss'd by the dew, wooed by the gale, — None by the dew of the twilight wet, So sweet as the deep-blue violet!

Oh, fame is as the moon above, Whose sun of light and life is love. There is more in the smile of one gentle eye Then the thousand pages of history; Than the loudest plaudits the crowd can raise. Take the gems in glory's coronal,