Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1824.pdf/64



Within his bosom hid the buds, And led the maiden to a little bank Covered with violets—they were Spring's last. The chesnut overhead had kept the sun From wasting their pure lives; and by the side There was a little brook, whose pebbles shone Like Indian stones—and there they past the noon. And day by day thus past, till came a time For tears, for farewell, and fidelity. And sought the court. Oh, then the change, The contrast, in the spirit of their love! The one went on his round of gaiety, The crown'd knight of the tournament, whose helm Wore every lady's colours as they came: The troubadour, with song to any vowed; The cavalier, the gayest of the hall— And this was. Now for his Love: There is a pale girl on that violet bank— Her bright curls hang neglected, and her cheek— Has sickness wasted thus its bloom away? Or is it the heart's withering? She has pined In that worst of all solitudes—the blank That comes when love's enchanted world decays Into reality. She was forgotten— But she could not forget, nor even reproach. His name still lingered on her lute, and still The chain he gave was treasured next her heart.

It was a summer noon—she had beguiled Time with an old romance; it told how once A maiden had cut off her long dark hair, And as a page had with her lover gone To Palestine, and with her life saved his. And pondered o'er and o'er the tale, And thought on the deep happiness, to see, Perhaps to serve, her again. All day she thought upon it, and at night It was amid her dreams. At last she went And join'd her faithless love. He knew her not; But yet she was his favourite—none could tune The lute with so much tenderness, none sing So soft a love lay. Twice the Spring had flung Her gift of bloom and balm upon the wind Since she was with him; and sometimes she thought