Works By Letitia Elizabeth Landon

"Aye, build it on these banks," the monarch said, "That when the autumn winds have swept the sea, They may come hither with their falling rains, A voice of mighty weeping o'er her grave."

"An ebbing tide of fire, the evil powers In fear and anger here are paramount, Rending the bosom of the fertile earth, And spreading desolation. Black as night, And terrible, as if the grave had sent Its own dark atmosphere to upper air, The heavy vapours rise ; from out the smoke Break the red volumes of the central flame, And lava floods and burning showers descend, Parching the soil to barrenness."

"I'd rather have such stirring life as theirs, Who make their own way, and delight to make, Win wealth and honour by their own bright mind, Whose destiny is in itself—than bear The noblest name that ever belted Earl Left honoured to his son—"

"He comes from Kilas, earth and sky, Bright before the deity; The sun shines, as he shone when first His glory over ocean burst. The vales put forth a thousand flowers, Mingling the spring and summer hours; The Suras fill with songs the air. The Genii and their lutes are there; By gladness stirred, the mighty sea Flings up its waves rejoicingly; And Music wanders o'er its tide, For Siva comes to meet his bride."

"Summer, shining summer, Art thou bringing now Colours to the red rose, Green leaves to the bough, Music to the singing birds, And honey to the bee ; Summer, shining summer, Oh, welcome unto thee."

"They met beside the stormy sea, those giant kings of old, And on each awful brow was set, a crown of burning gold. No ray the yet unrisen stars, or the wan moonbeams, gave, But far and bright, the meteor light shone over cloud and wave."

"He died, and by his death-bed stood The wife, the child, the friend, And saw pale cheek and anxious eye O’er him in fondness bend. Oh, agony !—how could they, King, Call thine a happy end ?"

"For time is vanquished by discovery, By arts which triumph over common wants, By knowledge, which bequeaths the following age All that its predecessor sought and won."

"Oh, gloomy quarry! thou dost hide in thee The tower and shrine. The city vast and grand and wonderful, And strong, is thine."

"Alas ! the contrast between us, and what We can create; That man should be so little in himself, His works so great."

"Oh ! folly of deeming aught earthly can last, Life never knew sorrow whose reign has not past. Oh ! mockery of mockeries, to trust human heart, Whose grief is a shadow, to come and depart:"

"Could the past be restored to the present, Methinks ’twere a union sublime : The past—dreaming, high and ideal, The present—keen, selfish and wise, ’Twould be like the glorious old Grecian, And again steal the fire from the skies."

"From drooping leaves, and bending flowers, Exhaled the midnight dews ! Like love that from its inmost thoughts Its own sweet life renews,"

"Who may deny that on the soul, The coming hours may cast Their shadow, till the future seem As actual as the past."

"There’s more for thought in one brief hour In yonder busy street, Than all that ever leaf or flower Taught in their green retreat."

"The country is no more left as it was originally created, than Belgrave Square remains its pristine swamp. The forest has been felled, the marsh drained, the enclosures planted, and the field ploughed. All these, begging Mr. Cowper’s pardon, are the works of man’s hands ; and so is the town—the one is not more artificial than the other."

"Dead !—it was like a thunderbolt To hear that he was dead ; Though for long weeks the words of fear Came from his dying bed ; Yet hope denied, and would deny We did not think that he could die."

"All things are signs in nature, still there are Subtle analogies we dimly trace. Perhaps our moral world has but its day, Of which the great sun is the glorious type; And intellect will run its course, and set. If so, we touch on the extremest verge Of our horizon ; and our arts, our power, Our conquests o’er the many realms of mind. Wealth, painting, sciences, and poetry Are but that rich magnificence of hues Which heralds in the closing of our day."

"Whene'er a person is a poet, No matter what the pang may be; Does not at once the public know it ? Witness each newspaper we see."

"Rage and revenge, and worldly care, Have all been calmed and purified, By memory of the childish prayer I whispered at my mother's side."

"Methinks it is a glorious thing, To sail upon the deep ; A thousand sailors under you, Their watch and ward to keep :"

"He does not know his children’s face, His wife might pass him by, He is so altered—did they meet, With an unconscious eye : He has been many years at sea, He’s worn with wind and wave : He asks a little breathing space, Between it and his grave:"

"Of all soils, a literary one is the soonest exhausted, and a change of subjects is as much needed as a change of crops."

"And the cold justice still awarded By time, which makes all lots the same. Slayer or slain, it matters not, We struggle, perish, are forgot!"

"Ah! never is that cherished face Banished from its accustomed place— It shines upon my weariest night It leads me on in thickest fight: All that seems most opposed to be Is yet associate with thee— Together life and thee depart, Dream—idol—treasure of my heart."

"Such was the colour—when her cheek Spoke what the lip might never speak. The crimson flush which could confess All that we hoped—but dared not guess. That blush which through the world is known To love, and to the rose alone—"

"The heart which on itself hath turned, Worn out with feelings—slighted—spurned— Till scarce one throb remained to show What warm emotions slept below, Never to be renewed again, And known but by remembered pain."

"Ah, only those who rarely know Kind words, can tell how sweet they seem. Great God, that there are those below To whom such words are like a dream."

"There is famine on earth—there is plague in the air, And all for a woman whose face is too fair. There was silence like that from the tomb, for no sound Was heard from the chieftains who darkened around, When the voice of a woman arose in reply, ‘The daughters of Rajahstan know how to die.’"

"Beside is a lake covered over with isles, As the face of a beauty is varied with smiles: Some small, just a nest for the heron that springs From the long grass, and flashes the light from its wings; Some bearing one palm-tree, the stately and fair, Alone like a column aloft in the air; While others have shrubs and sweet plants that extend Their boughs to the stream o’er whose mirror they bend. . . . But the isle in the midst was the fairest of all . . . ."

"Proud, beautiful, fierce; while she gazes, the tone Of those high murky features grows almost her own; And the blood of her race rushes dark to her brow, The spirit of heroes has entered her now."

"The haughty eye closes, the white teeth are set, And the dew-damps of pain on the wrung brow are wet: The slight frame is writhing—she sinks to the ground; She yields to no struggle, she utters no sound— The small hands are clenched—they relax—it is past, And her aunt kneels beside her—kneels weeping at last."

"The heart it has a weary task Which unrequited love must keep; At once a treasure and a curse, The shadow on its universe. Alas, for young and wasted years, For long nights only spent in tears; For hopes, like lamps in some dim urn, That but for the departed burn."

"Out upon morning, its hours recall, Earth to its trouble, man to his thrall; Out upon morning, it chases the night, With all the sweet dreams that on slumber alight; Out upon morning, which wakes us to life, With its toil, its repining, its sorrow and strife."

"I know not how it acts on other minds, But this I know, my most enchanted world Is hidden when the curtain falls, and leaves Remembrance only of its gorgeous dreams And beautiful creations."

"There are very many devices wherewith we delude ourselves — indeed, human life has never seemed to me any thing more than a series of mistakes. It is a mistake to be born — another to live — and a third to die."

"One goes out visiting for pleasure ; a fallacy belonging to that melancholy mania for change which has recourse to stage-coaches, and steam-boats, as if change of scene were change of self."

"— good news stops to take breath on the road ; bad news never requires it."

"Ah ! if this old charm were sooth, One wish yet might tax its truth I would ask, however vain, Never more to wish again."

"People ought to be grateful : I have done a great deal for the poets ; is there not one among them to do something for me ? I entreat them to recollect that I have read them, which is a great deal ; I have bought them, which is still more ; and I have reduced their theory to practice, which is most of all. They owe me a recompense, and I have a plan in my head. I want one of them to come and commit suicide in my garden, and leave a paper behind requesting to be interred in that very spot. He might assign any reason his imagination suggested, and I would take care that religious attention should be paid to his last wish ; indeed, it is for that I desire his death."

"It is a glorious task to seek, Where misery droops the patient head : Where tears are on the widow’s cheek, Where weeps the mourner o’er the dead."

"Thou lone and lovely water, would I were A dweller by thy deepest solitude !"

"The poet’s lovely faith creates The beauty it believes The light which on his footstep waits He from himself receives."

"Fair Paris caught the crimson hue — Well may I call it fair. With its pure heaven of softest blue. Its clear and sunny air — Soft fell the morning o’er each dome That rises mid the sky ; And, conscious of the day to come, Demand their place on high."

"That feminine fancy, a will of your own, Is a luxury wholly denied to a throne ;"

"Good springs alike from penitence and praise, From aught that can the mortal spirit raise:"

"But now thou wilt fill a weary throne, What with rights of the people, and rights of thy own : An ear-trumpet now thy sceptre should be, Eternal debate is the future for thee. Lord Brougham will make a six-hours’ oration, On the progress of knowledge, the mind of the nation ; Lord Grey one yet longer, to state that his place Is perhaps less dear to himself than his race ; O’Connell will tell Ireland’s griefs and her wrongs, In speech, the mac-adamized prose of Moore’s songs :"

"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!"

"Then many a stately castle stood O’er dungeons dark and deep ; Then many a noble robber wont The king’s highway to keep. Ah ! these were not the times to praise, Thank God, we know more peaceful days."

"—the past, which is Imagination’s own gigantic realm."