Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1822.pdf/56



And fairy shape breathe but of happiness. She is most beautiful! The richest tint That e'er with roselight dyed a summer cloud, Were pale beside her cheek; her raven hair Falls even to her feet, though fastened up In many a curl and braid with bands of pearl; And that white bosom and those rounded arms Are perfect as a statue's, when the skill Of some fine touch has moulded it to beauty. Yet there are tears within those radiant eyes, And that fair brow is troubled! She is young; But her heart's youth is gone, and innocence And peace, and soft and gentle thoughts, have fled A breast, the sanctuary of unhallowed fires, That love has led to guilt. At each light stir Of but a waving branch, a falling leaf, A deeper crimson burnt upon her cheek, Each pulse beat eagerly, for every sound To her was step, and then she sank Pallid and tearful, with that sickening throb Of sadness only love and fear can know. The night pass'd on—she touched the silver chords, And answered with her voice her lone guitar. It pleased her for a while:—it soothes the soul To pour its thoughts in melancholy words; And if aught can charm sorrow, music can. The song she chose was one her youth had loved, Ere yet she knew the bitterness of grief, But thought tears luxury:—

Oh take that starry wreath away, Fling not those roses o'er my lute! The brow that thou wouldst crown is pale, The chords thou wouldst awaken mute. Look on those broken gems that lie Beside those flowers, withering there; Those leaves were blooming round my lute, Those gems were bright amid my hair. And they may be a sign to tell Of all the ruin love will make: He comes in beauty, and then leaves The hope to fade, the heart to break!