Works By Letitia Elizabeth Landon

"He wears the green robe of the Prophet’s high line, He is sprung from the chieftain of Mecca’s far shrine ; His horse, on whose bridle the white pearls are sown, Has a lineage as distant and pure as his own."

"High in the azure heavens, ye ancient mountains, Do ye uplift your old ancestral snows, Gathering amid the clouds those icy fountains, Whence many a sunny stream through India flows."

"But on the ocean never track remaining Attests the progress of the human race ; The ship will pass without a wave retaining The lovely likeness mirrored on its face. And thus, O Time, that hast our world in keeping, So dost thou roll the current of thy years ; Away, away, in thy dark waters sweeping, All mortal cares and sorrows, hopes and fears."

"Thou hast been round us, like a viewless spirit, Known only by the music on the air; The leaf or flowers which thou hast named inherit A beauty known but from thy breathing there: For thou didst on them fling thy strong emotion, The likeness from itself the fond heart gave; As planets from afar look down on ocean, And give their own sweet image to the wave."

"The fable of Prometheus and the vulture Reveals the poet’s and the woman’s heart. Unkindly are they judged—unkindly treated— By careless tongues and by ungenerous words; While cruel sneer, and hard reproach, repeated, Jar the fine music of the spirit’s chords."

"Now the monarch must surrender All his golden state, Yet the mockeries of splendour On the pageant wait That attends him to the tomb. Music on the air is swelling, ’Tis the funeral song, As to his ancestral dwelling, Is he borne along. They must share life’s common doom. The kings of fair Golconda, Golconda’s ancient kings."

"What is the social world thou hast forsaken?— A scene of wrong and sorrow, guilt and guile ; Whence Love a long and last farewell has taken, Where friends can smile, and “murder while they smile.”"

"Within that lonely garden what happy hours went by, While we fancied that around us spread foreign sea and sky. Ah! the dreaming and the distant no longer haunt the mind We leave, in leaving childhood, life’s fairy-land behind."

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

"But this sweet palace was for peace, Built by the water-side, When Zerid sheathed the sword and won The Persian for his bride."

"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 :"

"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."

"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."

"Where temples stood, the tamarinds grow ; Broken columns are mouldering below. No steps are heard in the ruined hall. Such is man’s pride, and such is its fall."

"Our prize is won, our chase is o’er, Turn the vessel to the shore. Place yon rock, so that the wind, Like a prisoner, howl behind ; Which is darkest—wave, or cloud ? One a grave, and one a shroud."

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

"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."

"City of idol temples, and of shrines, Where folly kneels to falsehood—how the pride Of our humanity is here rebuked !"

"It was a king in Africa, He had an only son ; And none of Europe's crowned kings Could have a dearer one. . . . . . Alas ! it was an evil day, When such a thing could be; When strangers, pale and terrible, Came o'er the distant sea. . . . . . They bound him in a narrow hold, With others of his kind ; For weeks did that accursed ship Sail on before the wind. . . . . . At length a lovely island rose From out the ocean wave, They took him to the market-place, And sold him for a slave."

"A strain of music like the rushing wind, But deep and sweet As when the waters meet, In one mysterious harmony combined. So swells the mighty organ, rich and full, As if it were the soul Which raised the glorious whole, Of that fair building vast and wonderful."

"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 ?"

"It is a mighty thing to teach mankind A new idolatry, to bind the weak In their own fancies, to incite the strong By high imaginations, future hopes, Which fill the craving in all noble hearts For things beyond themselves, beyond their sphere."

"Such men may live, fulfil their destiny, Fill a whole land with temples and with tombs, And yet not leave a record of their fame ; Forgotten utterly; and of their faith, No memory, but fallen monuments, Haunted by dim tradition.—"

"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."

"Glittering in the morning beam, Crystal runs our little stream, See the flag-flowers bright and blue, Tinge the small waves with their hue; Azure, like a maiden's eye, Surely there the trout will lie: Shadowy hangs the alder bough Hush! we must be silent now."

"Morning, and flowers; green grass, and aged trees— All that can soothe, and calm, and purify, E’en ’mid a busy wilderness of streets."

"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!"

"Had life no mystery, and no hope, Oh ! who could bear to live !"

"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."

"Change, change, wondrous change, Mighty is thy power, and strange ; Summer sleeps beneath the snow, Fading follows autumn’s glow : Time, what has its chronicle, But of thee and thine to tell ?"

"I give it up in pure despair; But well the muse may turn refractory, When all her inspiration is— A Chinese Town, and an English Factory."

"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."

"It is a glorious thing for man to war With time, by some great work. Wherefore was skill, And energy, and industry, bestowed, If that he use them not ?"

"Oh, build tombs for the dead, they're mightier there Than in their living palaces !"

"Poetry is youth's language; and the scroll Whereon is poured the music of its soul, Is like some long-loved friend, whose image seems To bring back memory's deepest, dearest dreams."

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

"What though our passing day but be A bubble on eternity; Small though the circle is, yet still ’Tis ours to colour at our will."

"Mine be that consciousness of life Which has its energies from strife, Which lives its utmost, knows its power, Claims from the mind its utmost dower—"

"And still more hopeless than when last she on their camp looked down, The foeman’s gathered numbers close round the devoted town: And daily in that fatal trench her chosen soldiers fall, And spread themselves, a rampart vain, around that ruined wall. Her eyes upon her city turn—alas! what can they meet, But famine, and despair, and death, in every lonely street?"

"One word there came from her white lips, one word, she spoke no more; But that word was for life and death, the young queen named—the Jojr."

"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 . . . ."

"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."

"Oh sun, how glad thy rays are shed; How canst thou glory o’er the dead? Ah, folly this of human pride, What are the dead to one like thee, Whose mirror is the mighty tide, Where time flows to eternity? A single race, a single age, What are they in thy pilgrimage?"

"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."

"Now, a love match is like that childish toy which consists of various boxes enclosed one within another, and yet contains nothing, after all."

"Already much for man has been effected; The weak and poor man's cause Is strengthened by the laws, The equal right, born with us all, respected."