Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1822.pdf/4

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These are thy bridal flowers I am now wreathing; This is thy marriage hymn I am now breathing. Some one has been changing The fresh buds I gathered; This is not my wreath, Look how 'tis withered! And then she threw the flowers aside, and turned An earnest gaze on heaven; then sang again.

I love thee, oh! thou bright star, Now looking in light from afar. Am I not thy own love? I see Thy answer shine down upon me. I love thee, thou glorious king, Look on the fair offering I bring. There the summer rose blooms in its pride; Is it not a fit crown for thy bride? Oh! when will that time of joy be When my spirit shall mingle with Thee! Some day I shall seek thy bright shrine, And be to eternity thine.—

They told me of her history; her love Was a neglected flame which had consumed The vase wherein it kindled; Oh, how fraught With bitterness is unrequited love! To know that we have cast life's hope away On a vain shadow. Her's was gentle passion, Quiet and deep, as woman's love should be, All tenderness and silence, only known By the soft meaning of a downcast eye, Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts: A sigh scarce heard, a blush scarce visible, Alone may give it utterance. Love is A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, When felt as only woman love can feel; Pure as the snowfall, when its latest shower Sinks on spring flowers; deep as a cave-locked fountain, And changeless as the cypress's green leaves, For, like them sad, she nourished Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed A passion unconfessed, till He she loved Was wedded with another; then she grew Moody and melancholy. One alone Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, Her gentle sister, but that sister died, And the unhappy girl was left alone— A Maniac. She would wander far, and shunn'd Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt Was that dead sister's grave, and that to her Was as a home. L. E. L.