Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1826.pdf/31

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A young French Renegade told Chateaubriand he never gallopped alone in the Desert without a sensation amounting to rapture.

not dwell where palaces Rise with their marble halls, Though mirror bright and picture fair Be on their tapestried walls.

Though for their gardens North and South Alike have produce sent, And songs of many a tuneful lute Are with their fountains blent.

The purple couch has feverish sleep— The carved roof dreary hour; And gilded though they be, no chains Are like the chains of power.

I would not dwell in the wild bark, Cutting the wilder sea; Why should I wish to gain a port? None will have rest for me.

Weary, O! weary it is to gaze For days on the blue main, Round bounded but by the bright heaven For which we pine in vain.

I would not dwell in Beauty's bower, To bend me at her will; All rosy as her fetters be, Yet they are fetters still.

And maiden smile is vanishing— 'Tis well it should be so; When her eye learns Love's deeper light, What doth it learn but woe?

And Love's last smile for me has smiled, And its last sigh has sighed; Nor would I change its memory For any Love beside.

I will not seek the battle-field— The men I there should meet, What have they done to me to make Shedding their life-blood sweet?