Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1835.pdf/75

Rh

Rh

See no sweet shadows gliding o'er the grass, Which seems to fill with wild flowers as they pass; These, from the twilight music of the fount Ask not its secret and its sweet account; These never seek to read the chronicle Which hides within the hyacinth's dim-lit bell: They know not of the poetry which lies Upon the summer rose's languid eyes; They have no spiritual visitings elysian, They dream no dreamings, and they see no vision. The young Italian was not of the clay, That doth to dust one long allegiance pay. No; he was tempered with that finer flame, Which ancient fables say from heaven came; The sunshine of the soul, which fills the earth With beauty borrowed from its place of birth. Hence has the lute its song, the scroll its line; Hence stands the statue glorious as its shrine; Hence the fair picture, kings are fain to win, The mind's creations from the world within.] ———————

without me!—alone, thy hand Forgot its art awhile; Thy pencil lost its high command, Uncherished by my smile. It was too dull a task for thee To paint remembered rays; Thou, who were wont to gaze on me, And colour from that gaze.

I know that I am very fair, I would I were divine, To realize the shapes that share Those midnight hours of thine. Thou sometimes tell'st me, how in sleep What lovely phantoms seem; I hear thee name them, and I weep, Too jealous of a dream.

But thou didst pine for me, my love, Aside thy colours thrown; 'Twas sad to raise thine eyes above, Unanswered by mine own: Thou who art wont to lift those eyes, And gather from my face The warmth of life's impassioned dyes, Its colour and its grace.