Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1835.pdf/6

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Oh, Flower brought from Paradise To this cold world of ours, Shadows of beauty such as thine Recall thy native bowers.

Let others thank thee—'twas for them Thy soft leaves thou didst wreathe; The red rose wastes itself in sighs Whose sweetness others breathe! And they have thanked thee—many a lip Has asked of thine for words, When thoughts, life's finer thoughts, have touched The spirit's inmost chords.

How many loved and honoured thee Who only knew thy name; Which o'er the weary working world Like starry music came! With what still hours of calm delight Thy songs and image blend; I cannot choose but think thou wert An old familiar friend.

The charm that dwelt in songs of thine My inmost spirit moved; And yet I feel as thou hadst been Not half enough beloved. They say that thou wert faint, and worn With suffering and with care; What music must have filled the soul That had so much to spare!

Oh, weary One! since thou art laid Within thy mother's breast— The green, the quiet mother-earth— Thrice blessed be thy rest! Thy heart is left within our hearts, Although life's pang is o'er; But the quick tears are in my eyes, And I can write no more. L. E. L.