Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/81



There sits a pallid Boy, with thin white lips, And, spectre-like, his hand is on a Dog As meagre as himself, the only thing That he will let to share his solitude. This was not always so;—when the last Spring Gave her first kiss to Summer, there were none More happy than his Father and that Boy,— He had a Father then! and there was not A neater cottage, or a garden where Were fruit or flowers more plenty, in the vale. They were not poor;—can that be poverty Where each day brings its own? there is no food Like that ourselves have gained, no sleep like that Which is the rest of labour. It was worth A day of toil to sit, as they would sit, Through the long winter evenings, by a fire Less bright than the glad face of the fair Child Who sat beside his Father, listening With eager eyes to the strange tales which he, A sailor in his youth, could tell; or else, In gentler tones, heard how his Mother died The very day that first he lisped her name. And yet more pleasant on a summer eve To sit in the cool shade of their own door, While, quite forgetful of how tired He had been in the morning, would start up And join and win his young companions' race, His Father watching, proud of each fleet step. They never seemed apart, for was His own dear parent's shadow—labour was A pleasure by his side; and oftentimes He would leave all his sports, and fondly steal To his most happy Father, whose whole life Was centered but in his. There is no tie Like that last holiest link of love, which binds The lonely child to its more lonely parent.