Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1827.pdf/28

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but little of her history, For feelings are veiled records, which lie deep Within the heart that beats with them. She was Rich:—yon proud castle, with its ivied towers, And this fair park, and yonder spreading woods, Nature's old sanctuaries, were hers:—and young— I think that twenty summers were the most That she had numbered:—and, oh beautiful— A creature like a memory for the heart;— Hair black as is the thunder cloud—a lash Yet blacker still, and soft large eyes, where light And darkness met: the outline of her face Was as a Grecian statue, but more sweet, More feminine, from gentle smiles that seemed Its nature:—and her name was as a chord That wakened music—so much was she loved. The last of all her race: one after one Had died of strange and terrible disease, The red insanity—and she at length Was struck like all her house; her radiant eye Lost its humanity; the fine clear brow Was darkened with a shadow; and her lip Lost rose and smile together. She was sad, Silent, and restless; and what time the moon Filled her pale urn with golden light, vague fears And unreal terrors haunted her scared nights, And shadows seemed to compass her, and sounds. To which she made wild answers: other time Past away sad, but quiet; she would sit For hours beside this fountain, while its flow, Like music, calmed and entered in her soul. This did not last; she visibly declined; Flushed the rose hectic on her crimson cheek, And her eyes filled with strange and passionate light, As if they burnt themselves away. She died— But peacefully: 'twas like an angry child, Whose troubles end in sleep. She went to join The pure fine spirit which I must believe Had sought its heaven before.L. E. L.