A Poem of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Edinburgh Literary Journal 1830/Stanzas
The Edinburgh Literary Journal, Vol.4, 25th December 1830, page 391
STANZAS.
By Miss Landon.
———Oh, never did the sky,
Colour’d with sunset, wear so many hues
As the heart wears, fill'd with the changeful thoughts
That haunt its loneliness!
I pray thee, do not speak to me
Of any other hour,—
The past, for that can never be
Again within my power.
The future—what avails to raise
A world we cannot guide?
Our coming, like our former days,
Will roll a mingled tide.
Life but repeats its joy or pain—
Rebuilds its shrine o'erthrown;
We feel what we have felt again,
And known what we have known.
The plaything of the child but wears
A graver shape or name;
Whate'er the seeming that it bears,
Its spirit is the same.
I will not hope—I will forget,
My heart's depths are unstirr'd;
On memory a seal is set,
And Hope is a caged bird.
The present—let it be my all
Of pleasure, or of care,
Wreathe the red wreath—seek the bright hall,
The glad are gather'd there.
Now out upon my own false words!
Would I forget the past?
No, by the memory of those chords
Whose lot with it is cast!
The future—have I there no scope?
Aye! by my dearest aim,
That which has been my life's best hope—
A poet's haunted name.
Music, which makes the singer's death
Sweet as the song's own close;
I do not ask a laurel wreath,
I ask it of the rose.
I will not hope—I will forget,
Oh, foolish words and void!
Life were indeed a vain regret,
If they could be destroy'd.
I cannot choose but hope and fear,
And paint the future's hue,
While those my soul holds very dear,
Must share that future too.
Forget! love where my heart has clung,
Kindness—which but to name
The tears within my eyes have sprung,
As if to own the claim.
Forget! Oh, not a single word
Which took affection's tone;
Not one kind wish I ever heard,
And answer'd with my own.
It was a vain and selfish mood,
Which now my mind o’ercast;
In silence and in solitude,
The cloud has from me past.
There's many a string within the heart,
As there is on the lute;
It jars their music's sweetest part,
If any chord be mute.
As the wild waves of ocean glide,
And life's deep waters flow;
Hope's foambells dance upon the tide,
And memory's pearls below.
L. E. L.