Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1836.pdf/20

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Small but gorgeous was the chamber Where the lady leant; Heliotrope, and musk, and amber, Made an element, Heavy like a storm, but sweet. Softly stole the light uncertain Through the silken fold Of the sweeping purple curtain; And enwrought in gold Was the cushion at her feet. There he knelt to gaze on her— He, the latest worshipper.

From the table came the lustre Of its fruit and flowers; There were grapes, each shining cluster Bright with sunny hours,— Noon and night were on their hues. There the purple fig lay hidden Mid its wide green leaves; And the rose, sweet guest, was bidden, While its breath receives Freshness from the unshed dews. Nothing marks the youth of these— One bright face is all he sees.

With such colours as are dying On a sunset sky; With such odours as are sighing, When the violets die, Are the rich Italian wines. Dark and bright they glow together, In each graceful flask, Telling of the summer weather, And the autumn task, When young maidens stripped the vines. One small flask of cold pale green, Only one, he has not seen.

When She woke the heart that slumber'd    In a poet's dream, Few the summers he had number'd,    Little did he deem Of such passion and such power; When there hangs a life's emotion On a word—a breath— Like the storm upon the ocean, Bearing doom and death. Youth has only one such hour; And its shadow now is cast Over him who looks his last.