Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/122



At one end is a cavern, musical With falling waters: roof, and floor, and walls Are set with sparry gems, snow turned to treasure; Beyond is black as night, or grief, or death, And thence there comes a silent stream, which takes Onward its quiet course, then, through a break, The only one amid the mountains, goes Down to the world below. And it should be My task in fanciful similitudes To trace a likeness for my destiny. Those pale blue violets, which in despite Of snow, or wind, or soil, cling to the rock In lonely beauty—they are like my love, My woman's love: it grew up amid cares And coldness, yet still like those flowers it lived On in its fragrance: but far happier they, They rest in their lone home's security, While, rooted from its dear abode, my love Was scattered suddenly upon the wind, To wither and to die. And the blue stream Will be another emblem: cold and calm It leaves its dwelling-place,—soon over rocks Torrents like headlong passions hurry it— Its waters lose their clearness, weeds and sands Choke it like evil deeds, and banks upraised By human art, obstruct and turn its course, Till, worn out by long wanderings, it seeks, Its strength gone by, some little quiet nook Where it may waste its tired waves away. So in this solitude might I depart, My death unwatch'd! I could not bear to die, And yet see life and love in some dear eye. Why should I wish to leave some faithful one With bleeding heart to break above my grave? Oh no,—I do but wish to pass away Unloved and unremembered! L. E. L