Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1825.pdf/57



Oh! passion's after day is little worth The first delicious breaking of its morn; Too like a falling orb, which, heaven sent-forth, Touching our earth, is of its glory shorn; Brightness and pleasure wait upon its birth; But, afterwards, come sorrow, shame, and scorn. Love, that redeem'st our base mortality, What has the serpent's soil to do with thee?

’Twas a voluptuous hour; bird-like the breeze Had folded up his scented wings, to sleep 'Mid the rich blossoms of the orange-trees;— Bowed down the rose, as too oppress'd to keep The treasure of her sweetness from the bees; One moment more the odorous dew must weep, So heavy was the air with its delight; Like the last languid kiss of love's good night.

For days the lady came, and watched the face Of the Madonna, as her soul were there; Beside the casement, as if that charmed place, Filled with the gifts of mind, and open air Had influence on her soul, and touched its prayer With something of their own unearthly grace. They spoke not; 'twas enough for him to know That Beauty's breathing likeness was below.