Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1830.pdf/4

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is no music on the strings Of her neglected lute; Her white hand wakes no more its chords— Her bird-like voice is mute. She wreathes no flowers for her vase, No roses for her hair— She loiters in her favourite grove, But her heart is not there.

The dancers gather in the hall— She is amid the band, With vacant smile and wandering glance For those who claim her hand. Her eyes fill with unbidden tears, Her cheek is pale with care— Lonely amid the festival, For her heart is not there.

She broods above her own dear thoughts, As o'er her nest the dove; Memory and hope own but one dream— Her first young dream of love. She hears a gallant trumpet sound, A banner sweeps the air— She sees a knight lead on the charge,— And oh, her heart is there!