Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1830.pdf/12



'Tis midnight—but think not of slumber, There are dreams enow floating around; But ah, our soft dreams while thus waking Are aye the most dangerous found. Like the note of a lute was that whisper— Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes; Love only could breathe such a murmur, And what will Love bring thee but sighs?

And thou, thou pale dreamer, whose forehead Is flushed with the circle's light praise, O let it not dwell on thy spirit— How vain are the hopes it will raise! The praise of the crowd and the careless, Just caught by a chance and a name, O take it as pleasant and passing, But never mistake it for fame!

Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight, When thy rapt spirit eagle-like springs; But for the glad, the gay, and the social, Take only the butterfly's wings. The flowers around us are fading— Meet comrades for revels are they; And the lamps overhead are decaying— How cold seems the coming of day!

There, fling off the wreath and the sandal, And bid the dark curtains round close; For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber Must win its sweet exile the rose. What, weary and saddened! this evening Is an earnest what all pleasures seem— A few eager hours' enjoyment— A toil, a regret, and a dream! L. E. L.