Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1838.pdf/10

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Vainly does the west wind seek To recall upon her cheek How the red rose used to break In her native isle— Breaking with a lovely flush; But her cheek has lost its blush And her lip its smile: Once how fair they used to spring For the young Athenian King!

Desolate—how desolate— Does the Cretan lady wait On the beach forlorn, who late In a palace dwelt. They will not—the coming waves— Watch her pleasure like the slaves Who before her knelt; And the least sign was command From her slight but royal hand.

Lovely was the native bower Where she dwelt a guarded flower, In her other happier hour, Ere love grew to pain. Mid these grey rocks may she roam, For the maiden hath no home— None will have again. Never more her eyes will meet Welcome from her native Crete.

Little did that Princess fear, When a thousand swords were near, Where no other was her peer, That an hour was nigh, When her hands would stretch in vain Helpless to the unpitying main, To the unpitying sky— Earth below and heaven above Witness to the wrongs of Love.

On the white and sounding surge, In the dark horizon's verge, Does a vessel seem to urge Fast her onward way. And the swelling canvass spread, Glitters in the early red Of the coming day; ’Tis as if that vessel bore All the sunshine from the shore.

Hath the young King left her side— She but yesterday his bride— Who for his sake cross'd the tide, Gave him love and life? He hath left her far behind To the warring wave and wind. But what is their strife, To the war within the heart, Which beholdeth him depart?