Letitia Elizabeth Landon

"If every fool wore a crown, we should all be kings."

"Nehas, co tě nepálí."

"Forbid it, England—by thine own great self, By thine own yet unviolated hearths, . . . . Let not thy minister go forth in vain: The fate of Poland now is at thy will; The Autocrat will hear and heed thy voice; England, my glorious country, speak, and save!"

"It is like love ; oh love should be An ever-changing thing, — The love that I could worship must Be ever on the wing."

"Alas! she looked but in that eye Where now was writ her destiny. The heart love leaves looks back ever; The heart where he is dwelling, never."

"The apple blossoms' shower of pearl, The pear tree's rosier hue, As beautiful as woman's blush, As evanescent too."

"I heard them hymn his name--his power,-- I heard them, and I smiled; How could they say the earth was ruled By but a sleeping child?"

"The twilight, when our earth seems blending Its human passion with the skies; And rosy clouds, above ascending, Wear mortal colours while they rise, Till, purified, they disappear Amid the high pale atmosphere."

"[Alvine] Oh, that sweet ring of graceful figures ! one Flings her white arms on high, and gaily strikes Her golden cymbals — I can almost deem I hear their beatings; one with glancing feet Follows her music, while her crimson cheek Is flushed with exercise, till the red grape 'Mid the dark tresses of a sister nymph Is scarcely brighter ; there another stands, A darker spirit yet, with joyous brow, And holding a rich goblet ;"

"They built a temple for the God, 'Twas in a myrtle grove, Where the bee and the butterfly Vied for each blossom's love."

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

"My bark is on the ocean riding, Like a spirit o'er it gliding; Maiden, wilt thou come—and be Queen of my fair ship and me?"

"It is so sad — So very lonely — to be the sole one In whom there is a sign of change!"

"Of all the months that fill the year Give April's month to me, For earth and sky are then so filled With sweet variety !"

"The lark is with triumphant song Singing the rose-touched clouds among: 'Tis there that lighted song has birth, What hath such hymn to do with earth?"

"Youth is too eager, forth it flings Itself upon exulting wings, Which seek the heaven they ask too near— One wild flight ends the bright career; With broken wing and darkened eye, Earth claims again its own to die."

"Love's gifts are like the vein of gold That intersects earth's darker mould; The gold is gained, the coin is wrought; But how much trouble has it brought?"

"She gazed, although she knew not why, Where ocean seemed another sky. The moon looked down upon the deep, Till in that deep it seemed to be; Scarce might the eye the image keep Of which was sky, and which was sea."

"Take that singing bird away! It has too glad a lay For an ear so lorn as mine! And its wings are all too light, And its feathers all too bright, To rest in a bosom like mine!"

"She leant upon her harp, and thousands looked On her in love and wonder—thousands knelt And worshipp'd in her presence—burning tears, And words that died in utterance, and a pause Of breathless, agitated eagerness, First gave the full heart's homage: then came forth A shout that rose to heaven; and the hills, The distant valleys, all rang with the name Of the Æolian Sappho—every heart Found in itself some echo to her song."

"A small clear fountain, with green willow trees; Girdling it round, there is one single spot Where you may sit and rest, its only bank;"

"It was his last, his only field: They brought him back upon his shield, But victory was won. I cannot weep when I recall Thy land has cause to bless thy fall."

"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."

". . . the clock 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!"

"Oh, nothing has the memory of love!"

"Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is To have the bosom made a Paradise By thee—life lighted by thy rainbow smile!"

"Oh, who—reposed on some fond breast, Love's own delicious place of rest— Reading faith in the watching eyes, Feeling the heart beat with its sighs, Could know regrets, or doubts, or cares, That we had bound our fate with theirs!"

"Oh, there are evil moments in our life, When but a thought, a word, a look, has power To dash the cup of happiness aside, And stamp us wretched!"

"THERE rests a shade above yon town, A dark funereal shroud: 'Tis not the tempest hurrying down, 'Tis not a summer cloud. The smoke that rises on the air Is as a type and sign; A shadow flung by the despair Within those streets of thine."

"Look on yon child, it droops the head, Its knees are bow'd with pain; It mutters from its wretched bed, "Oh, let me sleep again!" Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes Turn mournfully away; Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise, And yet it is not day."

"The past is the poet's,—that world is his own; Thence hath his music its truth and its tone. He calls up the shadows of ages long fled, And light, as life lovely, illumines the dead."

"Ah! love and song are but a dream, A flower's faint shade on life's dark stream."

"There is a city, that for slaves Has kings, and nations, winds, and waves: St. Mark is conscious of her power, His winged lion marks her tower."

"Ah, minstrel song hath many wings! From foreign lands its wealth it brings."

"Of all the fowls that sweep the air None with the Peacock may compare; Not only for its loveliness, Though queens in vain might ask such dress, But o'er those painted plumes are cast So many shadows from the past,—"

"Oh! sweet and sudden fire that springs With but a look to light its wings; How false to say thou needest time The bright ascent of hope to climb; A star thou art, that may not be Reckoned by dull astronomy!"

"But who e'er turned from beauty's ray For fear of future shade; Or who e'er flung a rose away Because that rose might fade."

"How life effaces as it goes The keenest pang of earlier woes. How careless and how cold we grow, Dry as the dust we tread below;"

"The field is fought—who walketh there?— The shadow victory casts—Despair!"

"Night came—the deep and purple time Of summer in a southern clime."

"Oh, weary day that seemed so long! Oh, hours that dragged their weight along!"

"Weep not for the dead with a fruitless recalling, Their soul on the wings of the morning hath fled; Mourn rather for those whom yet life is enthralling, Ah! weep for the living—weep not for the dead."

"[Alvine] 'Tis one of those bright fictions that have made The name of Greece only another word For love and poetry ; with a green earth— Groves of the graceful myrtle — summer skies, Whose stars are mirror'd in ten thousand streams— Winds that move but in perfume and in music, And, more than all, the gift of woman's beauty. What marvel that the earth, the sky, the sea, Were filled with all those fine imaginings That love creates, and that the lyre preserves !"

"One of the loveliest daughters of that land, Divinest Greece ! that taught the painter's hand To give eternity to loveliness ; One of those dark-eyed maids, to whom belong The glory and the beauty of each Song Thy poets breathed, for it was theirs to bless With life the pencil and the lyre's dreams, Giving reality to visioned gleams Of bright divinities."

"But these days Of visible poetry have long been past!— No fear that the young hunter may profane The haunt of some immortal;"

"But there are natural temples still for those Eternal though dethroned Deities, Where from green altars flowers send up their incense: This fount is one of them. —"

"And this is woman's fate: All her affections are called into life By winning flatteries, and then thrown back Upon themselves to perish; and her heart, Her trusting heart, filled with weak tenderness, Is left to bleed or break!"

"To love, to be beloved again, and know A gulf between us:—aye, 'tis misery! This agony of passion, this wild faith, Whose constancy is fruitless, yet is kept Inviolate:—to feel that all life's hope, And light, and treasure, clings to one from whom Our wayward doom divides us. Better far To weep o'er treachery or broken vows,— For time may teach their worthlessness:—or pine With unrequited love;—there is a pride In the fond sacrifice—the cheek may lose Its summer crimson; but at least the rose Has withered secretly—at least, the heart That has been victim to its tenderness, Has sighed unechoed by some one as true, As wretched as itself."

"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 dream'd 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 press'd his burning lips To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,— Young Guido died beside his masterpiece!"

"Many a head that down had lain, Impatient with its twelve hours' pain, And wishing that the bed it prest, Were, as the grave's, a long last rest, Has sprung again at morning's call, Forgiving, or forgetting all; Lighting the weary weight of thought With colours from the day-break brought, Reading new promise in the sky, And hearing Hope, the lark on high."