Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1826.pdf/4

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sounds of joy are ringing Again in that ancient hall, And tones of music fall, To answer a soft voice singing. Around it green leaves are wreathing; And, saved from the power Of the winter hour, Some few choicest flowers are breathing. The piled-up hearth is blazing; And around it stand A youthful band, Their gayest carol raising. I stood aloof, in my sadness— The silent lip, the heavy sigh:— Oh! what had they, or what had I To do with scenes of gladness? And my heart went back, in its sorrow, To the beauty and the bloom, Sleeping the sleep of the tomb, In a night that knows no morrow— At least, none of earthly greeting: And my spirits had not power To think upon that hour, Which hopes an immortal meeting: For at once to memory started, As I enter'd the festive scene, Thoughts of all that once had been, And all that was now departed. Again I saw thee reclining, With thy soft eyes and bow'd down head, And thy dark hair round it spread, Like the wing of the raven shining. But that dream of the moment past o'er me, And I waken'd again But to added pain, And to know that nought could restore thee Alas! for Memory's folly! I but start from the sweet dreams, Where the past like the present seems, To an added melancholy. One sweet hope is not denied me,— Though my vain wishes must not save, I get my share—the grave,— And rest, mine Ianthe, beside thee. IOLE.