Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1837.pdf/17

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Down the ungather'd darkness of her hair Floats, like a pall that covers her despair,— What woman's care hath she in her adorning? The noontide's sultry hours Have wither'd the white flowers, Binding its dark lengths in the early morning.

All day her seat hath been beside the shore Watching for him who will return no more; He thinks not of her or her weary weeping. Absence, it is thy lot To be too soon forgot, Or to leave memory but to one sad keeping.

Oh, folly of a loving heart that clings With desperate faith, to which each moment brings Quick and faint gleams an instant's thought must smother; And yet finds mocking scope For some unreal hope, Which would appear despair to any other!

She knows the hopelessness of what she seeks, And yet, as soon as rosy morning breaks, Doth she unloose her pigeon's silken fetter; But thro' the twilight air No more its pinions bear What once so oft they brought—the false one's letter.

The harvest of the summer-rose is spread, But lip and cheek with her have lost their red; Theirs is the paleness of the soul's consuming— Fretfully day by day In sorrow worn away; Youth, joy, and bloom have no more sure entombing.

It is a common story, which the air Has had around the weary world to bear, That of the trusting spirit's vain accusing; Yet once how firm and fond Seemed the eternal bond That now a few brief parted days are loosing.

Close to her heart the weary pigeon lies, Gazing upon her with its earnest eyes, Which seem to ask—Why are we thus neglected? It is the still despair Of passion forced to bear Its deep and tender offering rejected.

Poor girl! her soul is heavy with the past; Around the shades of night are falling fast; Heavier still the shadow passing o'er her. The maiden will no more Watch on the sea-beat shore— The darkness of the grave is now before her.

 

Lonely by the moonlit waters Does the conqueror stand, Yet unredden'd by the slaughters Of his mighty band. 