Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1824.pdf/66

65 Literary Gazette, 24th July, 1824, Pages 475

ORIGINAL POETRY. POETIC SKETCHES. Fifth Series.— Sketch the Second. INFIDELITY. And in that Castle was a pictured hall, Filled with all shapes of loveliness; and there. When the pale moon shone with her sweetest light, I saw three telling the same tale of love— I have remembered it. - - -

There were three lovely pictures. In the first Is an Italian scene of summer beauty: In the back-ground a vineyard, poplar stems Supporting the thick grapes which stretch across From each tree to the next in rich festoons Of green and purple drapery. Far behind A river loses itself amid green hills; And on its banks there stands a hunter youth: White plumes are in the cap, which only press On one side his dark curls. The graceful boy Has one hand raised to the blue sky above, As calling the fair sun to hear his words And witness to their truth; and his bright eyes Are filled with passionate eloquence, and gaze On the soft eyes that now are fixed on his Oh! so undoubtingly!—and there it seems As he had paused in his full tide of vows To look upon her as she looks on him, Until the very colour of their eyes Blend together: her soft blue orbs catch The darkness of that youth's, and his become Filled with the gentle hue and light of hers. The girl is beautiful: hair, like the stream Of sunshine flung o'er snow, is on her brow; Upon the cheek a blush shines, delicate As the first break of morning; and the wind, Amid a thousand roses, never kiss'd One fresher than her lip. And there they stand— Young, loved, and lovely. Surely there is truth And happiness with them! - - -

Now for the second picture. She is there— That young and radiant beauty!—but how changed!— Sorrow can do the work of years, and love Is the heart's worst of sorrows! On her brow How much has misery graved! Her cheek is flushed With bitter weeping, and the tears yet shine Upon the darkened lash! She stands beneath The shadow of a large old cedar-tree, Whose branches hang above the stream like night, Scattering a letter's fragments; yet one part Is in her hand, that cannot let it go—