Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1835.pdf/29

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( same small chamber; but the fire-light now   Flings its fantastic shadow on the wall:     A light less cheerful than the blessed sun,    And yet more social. Curtains closely drawn,     And fastened doors, shut out all else beside     The still small world of our own hope and heart.     The maiden's garb is simple; but 'tis worn     With a sweet anxiousness to please. Her hair—     How rich its golden tresses are—is knit     With curious care around her graceful head.     Her cheek is red; the rose betrays her heart;     Telling how fast it beats. One enters there—     A warrior by his step—and by his eye—     And yet the step is light—the eye is soft.     Still hath that eye a dark and inward power,     Which, like the shadow of some omen, sits     And clouds the present with vague prophesy.) So true a lover have I never known! Young Brackenberg may well deserve a place On those old chronicles of constancy That are such favourites with you. (Clara continues to pace the room, singing snatches of an old song.) It weeps, saddest weeping, It hopes, and it fears; Then smiles are keeping A light mid its tears. Now humble, now scornful, Now gladness, now gloom; Now bright as the morning; Now dark as the tomb. Now pining all lonely; Then widely it roves; Yet happy is only The spirit that loves.

Now, cease this foolish singing. Pray thee forbid me not, you do not know The power that lurked in that simple song: ‘Twas sung beside my cradle, and recalls Thoughts that I love to link with thoughts of love. Frank, innocent, glad thoughts. He is a child, And useth childish phrase; our common words, The workaday and worldly, are too harsh,