Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/35



Yes, every lineament of thine Full well the painter's skill hath given; That forehead the proud spirit's shrine, The lightning of that eye's dark heaven.

Yes, here at least thou art the same As once thou wert in years departed, When truth and love shone o'er thy name, Or ere I knew thee cold, false hearted!

How many a dark and bitter thought These pictured features now awaken! There is no balm by memory brought, To hopes betrayed, to hearts forsaken.

Those whose life's Summer-path has been A fairy round of light and pleasure, May well recall each vanished scene— To them remembrance is a treasure;

But those whose year has only known The clouds, the coldness of December, Why should they pause on moments gone? ’Tis searing wounds when they remember.

Drear was the hour of youth to me, My hopes were stars that fell when lightest; But one sweet dream still clung to Thee, My first, my best, my last, my brightest!

Would I could live that time again, When life was but a void without thee! To me 'twere worth an age of pain To feel once more I did not doubt thee.

But, like this picture-frame, thy heart Is but a gilded toy, concealing A darker and a meaner part, Bright coloured, but cold and unfeeling!

Farewell to love for ever past, Farewell to the dear hopes that leave me! I'd almost, could that bid them last, Wish that thou couldst again deceive me!