Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/69



Are very worthless. And that morn Had from his  borne All woman's prettiness of scorn; Had watched for her averted eye In vain,—had seen a rival nigh And smiled upon: he wildly swore To look on the false one no more, Who thus could trifle, thus could break A fond heart for the triumph's sake.— And yet she loved him,—oh how well Let woman's own fond spirit tell. When the warriors met in their high career, Went not her heart along with his spear? The dance seemed sad, and the festival dim, If her hand was unclaimed by him; Waked she her lute, if it breached not his name? Lay she in dreams, but some thought of him came? No flowers, no smiles, were on life's dull tide, When was not by his ' side. And yet they parted! Still there clings As earth-stain to the fairest things; And love, that most delicious gift Upon life's shrine of sorrow left, Has its own share of suffering: A shade falls from its radiant wing, A spot steals o'er its sunny brow, Fades the rose-lip's witching glow. 'Tis well,—for earth were too like heaven, If length of life to love were given.

He has left the land of the chesnut and lime For the cedar and rose of a southern clime, With a pilgrim's vow and a soldier's brand, To fight in the wars of the Holy Land. No colours are placed on his helm beside, No lady's scarf o'er his neck is tied, A dark plume alone does young wear:— Look where warriors are thickest, that plume will be there.