Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/132



A longer memory to one whose life Was but a thread. Her history may be told In one word—love. And what has love e'er been But misery to woman? Still she wished— It was a dying fancy which betrayed How much, though known how false its god had been, Her soul clung to its old idolatry,— To send her pictured semblance to the false one. She hoped—how love will hope!—it might recall The young and lovely girl his cruelty Had worn to this dim shadow; it might wake Those thousand fond and kind remembrances Which he had utterly abandoned, while The true heart he had treasured next his own A little time, had never ceased to beat For only him, until it broke. She leant Beside a casement when first looked Upon her wasted beauty. 'T was the brow, The Grecian outline in its perfect grace, That he had learnt to worship in his youth, By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face Was yet a treasure in his memory; But sunken were the temples,—they had lost Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as day The veins shone through them, shaded by the braids, Just simply parted back, of the dark hair, Where grief's white traces mocked at youth. A flush, As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her cheek, Then lingered there for ever, looked like health Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip, Like the rich crimson of the evening sky, Brightest when night is coming. took Just one slight sketch; next morning she was dead!