Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1828.pdf/6

Predestined from my birth to feed
    On dreams, yet watch those dreams depart;
To bear through life—to feel in death—
    A burning and a broken heart.

Then hang it on the cypress bough,
    The minstrel-lute I leave to thee;
And be it only for the wind
    To wake its mournful dirge for me.

I pray thee, dearest one! forget
    All that can link my thought with fame;
I'd have thee but recall those songs
    Whose only music was thy name.
L. E. L.