Letitia Elizabeth Landon

—for earth were too like heaven, If length of life to love were given.

Love is a pearl of purest hue, But stormy waves are round it; And dearly may a woman rue, The hour that she found it.

Well may storm be on the sky, And the waters roll on high, When MANMADIN passes by. Earth below and heaven above Well may bend to thee, oh Love!

Yet one arrow has a power Lasting till life's latest hour-- Weary day and sleepless night, Lightning gleams of fierce delight, Fragrant and yet poisoned sighs, Agonies and ecstasies;

Pillowed on a lotus flower, Gathered in a summer hour, Rides he o'er the mountain wave Which would be a tall ship's grave! At his back his bow is slung, Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung,—

He sung,—the notes at first were low, Like the whispers of love, or the breathings of woe: The waters were hushed, and the winds were stay'd, As he sang his farewell to his Lesbian maid!

What is the light of a poet's name, If it is not his country that hallows his fame? Where may he look for guerdon so fair As the honour and praise that await him there? His name will be lost and his grave forgot, If the tears of his …

The lines were fill'd with many a tender thing, All the impassion'd heart's fond communing.

I would not even have him weep O'er his Italian love's last sleep. Oh, tears are a most worthless token, When hearts they would have soothed are broken.

I left my home, and I was left A stranger in his land, bereft Of even hope; there was not one Familiar face to look upon.— Their speech was strange.

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound, His face was bowed on the cold damp ground, He raised his head, his tears were done, The father had prayed o'er his only son!

Love, thou hast hopes like summers, short and bright, Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams, Intense delicious throbs!

Ah! love is even more fragile than its gifts! A tress of raven hair:--oh, only those Whose souls have felt this one idolatry Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows.

All, lingering, stayed to gaze Upon this Eden of the painter's art, And looking on its loveliness, forgot The crowded world around them!—

— a poet's love Is immortality!

Hope is love's happiness, but not its life;— How many hearts have nourished a vain flame In silence and in secret, though they knew They fed the scorching fire that would consume them!

Oh, all Know love is woman's happiness.

Thrice hallowed shrine Of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside!

How I pity those whose childhood has been unhappy! to them one of the sweetest springs of feeling has been utterly denied, the most green and beautiful part of life laid waste.

It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling To know we are regretted.

How many glorious structures we had raised Upon Hope's sandy basis!

Death's a fearful thing when we must count its steps!

An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame, To Brahma's race and Brahma's name! Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside, For a moment her bursting tears to hide. None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre,

Yet gazed MANDALLA on the square As she he sought still glided there,— Oh that fond look, whose eyeballs' strain, And will not know its look is vain! At length he turned,—his silent mood Sought that impassioned solitude,