Page:Landon in The London Literary Gazette 1820.pdf/6

 Literary Gazette, 26th August, 1820, Pages 556-557

[by Correspondents.] FRAGMENT.

Is not this grove A scene of pensive loveliness—the gleam Of Dian's gentle ray falls on the trees, And piercing thro’ the gloom, seems like the smile That pity gives to cheer the brow of grief: The turf has caught a silvery hue of light Broken by shadows, where'er the branching oak Rears its dark shade, or where the aspen waves Its trembling leaves. The breeze is murmuring by Fraught with sweet sighs of flowers and the song Of sorrow, that the nightingale pours forth, Like the soft dirge of love. There is oft told A melancholy record of this grove— It was time once the haunt of young affection— And now seems hallowed by the tender vows That erst were breathed here. Sad is the tale That tells of blighted feelings, hopes destroyed; But love is like the rose, so many ills Assail it in the bud—the cankering blast, The frost of winter and the summer storm, All bow it down; rarely the blossom comes To full maturity; but there is nought Sinks with so chill a breath as Faithlessness,— As she could tell whose loveliness yet lives In village legends. Often, at this hour Of lonely beauty, would she list the tale Of tenderness, and hearken to the vows Of one more dear than life unto her soul: He twined him round a heart which beat with all The deep devotedness of early love— Then left her, careless of the passion which He had awakened into wretchedness: The blight which withered all the blossoms love Had fondly cherish'd, wither'd to the heart Which gave them birth. Her sorrow had no voice, Save in her faded beauty; for she looked A melancholy broken-hearted girl. She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud Once mantling o'er her cheek like that which eve Hangs o'er the sky, glowing with roseate hue Had faded into paleness, broken by Bright burning blushes, torches of the tomb. There was such sadness, even in her smiles, And such a look of utter hopelessness Dwelt in her soft blue eye—a form so frail, So delicate, scarce like a thing of earth— ‘Twas sad to gaze upon a brow so fair, And see it traced with such a tale of woe— To think that one so young and beautiful Was wasting to the grave.