Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/143



These are not annual blooms, that die, then rise Again into a beautiful existence; They may live long, and be the life of life, But, like the rose, when they are once destroyed They perish utterly. And like that tree, How sweet a memory too remains! though dead The green leaves, and decayed the stem, yet still The spirit of fragrance lingers, loth to leave Its dear abode. Just so love haunts the heart, Though withered, and to be revived no more. Oh, nothing has the memory of love!— It was a summer twilight, crimson lights Played o'er the bridal bowers of the west, And in the grey horizon the white moon Was faintly visible, just where the sky Met the green rolling of the shadowy sea. Upon a little hill, whose broken ridge Was covered with the golden furze, and heath Gay with its small pink blossoms, in a shade Formed of thick hazels and the graceful sweep Of the ash boughs, an old beach trunk the seat, With a sweet canopy of honeysuckle Mixed with the wild briar-roses, sat, Happy, for lean'd upon his bosom In the deep fondness of the parting hour; One of those partings memory will keep Among its precious things. The setting sun Shed such rich colour o'er the cheek, which press'd Closer and closer, like a rose, that sought A shelter next his heart; the radiant eyes, Glorious as though the sky's own light were there, Yet timid, blue, and tender as the dove's; The soft arm thrown around his neck; the hair Falling in such profusion o'er a face That nestled like a bird upon his breast; Murmurs, the very breath of happiness; Low and delighted sighs, and lengthened looks, As life were looking words inaudible, Yet full of music; whispers such as are What love should ever speak in, soft yet deep, As jealous even that the air should share