Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1825.pdf/58



One day she came not; it was all in vain That the young sculptor would have fix'd his thought On the fair brow he traced—still like a chain His anxiousuess prest round,—be fruitless sought To still the sudden throbbing of each vein, When the least sound upon his ear was brought: This feverish restlessness, it is love's first Of miseries, would to heaven it were its worst!

His heart was heavy—as an omen; all His hopes seemed dead, restless he wandered long— At last he paused by the cathedral wall Whence came the burial anthem's mournful song: He entered, and he saw the funeral pall; His heart foreboded, how could it be wrong? He raised the shroud—he knew that she was there; And thence he turned away in black despair.

And still, in all the works of later years, Is traced the influence of that early flame; Sorrow and love might have passed with their tears, But they had hallowed his heart, and Fame But followed in their footsteps.