Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1837.pdf/16



Sunset has flung its glory o'er the floods, That wind amid Ionia's myrtle woods,— Sunset that dies a conqueror in his splendour; But the warm crimson ray Has almost sunk away Beneath a purple twilight faint and tender.

Soft are the hues around the marble fanes, Whose marble shines amid the wooded plains,— Fanes where a false but lovely creed was kneeling,— A creed that held divine All that was but a sign, The outward to the inward world appealing.

Earth was a child, and child-like, in those hours, Full of fresh feelings, and scarce conscious powers, Around its own impatient beauty flinging;— These young believings were Types of the true and fair,— The holy faith that Time was calmly bringing.

Still to those woods, with ruins fill'd, belong The ancient immortality of song,— Names and old words whose music is undying,— Yet do they haunt the heart With its divinest part, The past that to the present is replying.

The purple ocean far beneath her feet, The wild thyme on the fragrant hill her seat, As in the days of old there leans a Maiden,— Many have watch'd before The breaking waves ashore,— Faint with uncounted moments sorrow-laden.

With cold and trembling hand She has undone the band Around the carrier-pigeon just alighted,— And instant dies away The transitory ray From the dark eye it had one instant lighted.

The sickness of a hope too long deferred Sinks on her heart,—it is no longer stirred By the quick presence of the sweet emotion,— Sweet even unto pain, With which she sees again Her bird come sweeping o'er the purple ocean.

Woe for the watcher,—still it doth not bring A letter nestled fragrant 'neath its wing; There is no answer to her fond inquiring,— Again, and yet again, No letter o'er the main Quiets the anxious spirit's fond desiring.