Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1830.pdf/7

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thy spur to thy steed, thy sail to the wind, You may leave the far vale and the mountain behind; Like the storm o'er the south in thy flight thou may'st be; But where may'st thou fly from the memory of me?

The struggle, the pleasure, the toil, and the strife, May fill up thy days with the hurry of life; But night cometh lonely o'er land and o'er sea, And in silence and shadow I still am with thee.

With no rose on my cheek, with no rose in my hair, But cold as the love whose remembrance I bear, Breathing vows that are broken, and hopes that are fled, A voice breaks thy slumber—the voice of the dead.

Let thy loveliest slave lull thy sleep with her strain— Ay, drain the red wine-cup,—it all is in vain: From the haunt of thy midnight I will not depart, For thy guilt is my power—my home is thy heart.