Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/130



Were passionately eloquent, all filled With earth's most glorious feelings. And his father, A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp Was ever on the bridle or the brand, Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was To sit for hours by a fountain's side Listening its low and melancholy song; Or wander through the gardens silently, As if with leaves and flowers alone he held Aught of companionship. In his first years They sent him to a convent, for they said Its solitude would suit with 's mood. And there he dwelt, while treasuring those rich thoughts That are the food on which young genius lives. He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome Break from its purple shadows, making glad Even that desolate city, whose dim towers, Ruins, and palaces, seem as they looked Back on departed time; then in the gloom Of his own convent's silent burying ground, Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypresses mourned, He pass'd the noon, dreaming those dear day dreams, Not so much hopes as fancies; then at eve, When through the painted windows the red sun Rainbowed the marble floor with radiant hues, Where spread the ancient church's stately arch, He stayed, till the deep music of the hymn, Chanted to the rich organ's rolling notes, Bade farewell to the day; then to his cell He went, and through the casement's iron bars The moon looked on him, beautiful as love, Lighting his slumber. On the church's wall There hung one lovely portrait, and for hours Would, in the fulness of his heart, Kneel, watching, till he wept. The subject was A dying Magdalene: her long black hair Spread round her like a shroud, one pale thin hand Pillowed a cheek as thin and pale, and scarce The blue light of the eyes was visible For the death dampness on the darkened lids, As one more effort to look on the cross, Which seemed just falling from the fainting arm, And they would close for ever. In that look There was a painter's immortality,