Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1828.pdf/6



Predestined from my birth to feed On dreams, yet watch those dreams depart; To bear through life—to feel in death— A burning and a broken heart.

Then hang it on the cypress bough, The minstrel-lute I leave to thee; And be it only for the wind To wake its mournful dirge for me.

I pray thee, dearest one! forget All that can link my thought with fame; I'd have thee but recall those songs Whose only music was thy name. L. E. L.