Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1832.pdf/17



As if bound on a pilgrimage, We visit now thy shore, Haunted by all which thou hast gleaned From the old days of yore: We feel in every hill and heath Romance which thou hast flung; We say, 'Twas here the poet dwelt, 'Twas there of which he sung.

Remembering thee, we half forget How vainly this is said; There seemed so much of life in thee, We cannot think thee dead. Dead? dead? when there is on this earth Such waste of worthless breath; There should have gone a thousand lives To ransom thee from death!

Now out on it! to hear them speak Their idle words and vain, As if it were a common loss For nature to sustain. It is an awful vacancy A great man leaves behind, And solemnly should sorrow fall Upon bereaved mankind.

We have too little gratitude Within the selfish heart, Else with what anguish should we see The great and good depart! Methinks our dark and sinful earth Might dread an evil day, When Heaven, in pity or in wrath, Calls its beloved away.

A fear and awe are on my soul, To look upon the tomb, And think of who are sleeping laid Within its midnight gloom. What glorious ones are gone!—thus light Doth vanish from our spheres: Out on the vanity of words! Peace now, for thoughts and tears!