Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1824.pdf/72



Of flowers and green boughs— is there— But, woe for, she is not alone!— So lovely, and so false!—There, there she sat, Her white arm round his neck, and her fair brow Bowed on his shoulder, while her long black hair Streamed o'er his bosom—There they sat, so still, Like statues in that light; and thought How often he had leant with In such sweet silence. But they rose to go; And then he marked how tenderly the youth Drew his cloak round her, lest the dew should fall Upon her fragile beauty. They were gone— And threw him on the turf, which still Retained the pressure of her fairy feet— Then started wildly from the ground, and fled As life and death were on his speed. His towers Were but a little distant from the sea; And ere the morning broke, was tossed Far over the blue wave. He did not go, As the young warrior goes, with hope and pride, As he once went; but as a pilgrim, roamed O'er other countries, any but his own. At last his steps sought pleasant Italy. It was one autumn evening that he reached A little valley in the Apennine: It lay amid the heights—a resting place Of quiet and deep beauty. On one side A forest of a thousand pines arose, Darkened with many winters; on the left Stood the steep-crags, where, even in July, The white snow lay, carved into curious shapes Of turret, pinnacle, and battlement; And in the front, the opening mountains showed The smiling plains of grape-clad Tuscany; And farther still was caught the sky-like sweep Of the blue ocean. Small white cottages And olive trees filled up the dell. But, hid By the sole group of cypresses, whose boughs, As the green weeping of the sea-weed, hung Like grief or care around, a temple stood Of purest marble, with its carved dome And white corinthian pillars strangely wreathed By the thick ivy leaves. In other days, Some nymph or goddess had been worshipped there, Whose name was gone, even from her own shrine.