Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1834.pdf/4

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the black clouds sweep o'er the sky, Earth-born, they suit our earthly sphere; Fit pall for the departed one, Fit cradle for the coming Year. Heavy like many a heart below, Yet lit with gleams of broken light, Uncertain, shadowy, and their gloom So soon to merge in deeper night.

On such a scroll might Fate inscribe The records of the Year to be— The dark, the transient—such a page O Earth! is chronicle for thee. 'Twas a false science that which sought Thy future where those planets shine: The bright, the calm–ah! what have they In common or with thee or thine?

The clouds, and not the stars, to them The omen and the sign be given— The clouds, the vapours of our soil, Not stars, whose element is heaven. The deepening shade, the flitting light, Mark what each coming month will know— The passing joy, the constant care, Of life's sad pilgrimage below.

The past still mirrors the to-come: Let each say what their past has been. Do they not shudder to recall— Would they live o'er each troubled scene? Ah! happy those, if such there be, Whose still unbroken spirits raise Some vision to be realised, Some fond belief in happier days.