Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1827.pdf/29

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on, float on, thou lonely bark, Across the weary brine; I know not why I load thee with Such cheerless freight as mine.

I know not why I wander forth, Nor what I wish to see; For Hope, the child of Morn and Mist, Has long been veiled from me.

Little reck I for ruined towers— They may be very fair— Let poet or let painter rave, I see but ruin there.

I think upon the waste above, And on the dead below; I see but human vanity— I see but human wo.

And cities in their hour of pomp, The peopled and the proud— What are they? mighty sepulchres To gulf a wretched crowd:

Where wealth and want are both secured Each one the worst to bear; Where every heart and house are barred With the same sordid care.

And fairer scenes—the vine-wreathed hill A gold and ruby mine, Grapes, nature's jewels, richly wrought Around the autumn's shrine;

The corn-fields' fairy armory, Where every lance is gold, And poppies fling upon the wind Their banner's crimson gold:

The moon, sweet shadow of the sun, On the lake's tranquil breast,— Too much these gentle scenes contrast My spirit's own unrest.