Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1835.pdf/4

 1

thee when the sunshine lies golden on the sea— When the pale moon trembles in the brook, I think, love mine, of thee; I see thee when the clouds of dust obscure the weary way, And when the shadows of the night the traveller dismay.

When through the cool and tangled grass singeth the lonely rill, I go into the thicket green, where all beside is still; Thy face is painted on the air—I fancy thou art near! The sun sinks down, the stars shine forth would thou wert really here!