Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1826.pdf/13



, it is not on lip or brow
 * On which you may read change;

But it is in the heart below
 * That much of new and strange

Lies hidden. Woe the hour betide That ever they had aught to hide!

My step is in the lighted hall,
 * Roses are round my hair,

And my laugh rings as if of all
 * I were the gayest there;

And tell me, if 'mid these around, Lighter word or smile be found.

But come not on my solitude,
 * Mine after-hour of gloom,

When silent lip and sullen brow
 * Contrast the light and bloom,

Which seem'd a short while past to be As if they were a part of me.

As the red wreaths that bind my hair
 * Are artificial flowers,

Made for, and only meant to wear
 * When amid festal hours:

Just so the smiles that round me play Are false, and flung aside, as they.

And when the reckless crowd among
 * I speak of one sweet art,

How lightly can I name the song,
 * Which yet has wrung my heart!

That lute and heart alike have chords Not to be spoken of in words—

Or spoken but when the dew goes
 * On its sweet pilgrimage,

Or when its ray the moonbeam throws
 * Upon the lighted page,

On which the burning heart has pour'd The treasures of its secret hoard.

These are the poet's hours! oh! these,—
 * Secret, and still, and deep—

The hot noon lull'd by singing bees
 * Or the blue midnight's sleep.

When odour, wind, and star, and flower Are ruling, is the poet's hour.

But ill betide the time when he
 * Shall wish to hear his song

Borne from its own sweet secrecy
 * On words of praise along:

Alas for fame! 'tis as the sun That withers what it shines upon.

My lute is but a humble lute,
 * Yet o'er it have been thrown

Those laurel leaves, that well might suit
 * With one of loftier tone.

And yet is there one chord appears Unwet with sad and secret tears?