Poems attributed to Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from The Keepsake, 1838/The Last

by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

THE LAST

Painted by Edward Corbould⁠Engraved by H. Cook

THE LAST.

What! is the ladye sleeping?—no, too pale
    Is that white slumber for the dreaming hours;
Too curious are the foldings of that veil,
    And too unmoved that wreath of fragrant flowers.

She lieth like a statue, white and cold,
    Like the soft marble of some sculptured column;
The long bright hair sweeps down in many a fold
    O’er the high brow—wan with death’s hues, and solemn.

This is not sleep—for sleep retains the life
    That gives the image to the troubled dreaming,
With all day’s feverish cares and fancies rife,
    Around the flushed and unquiet pillow seeming.

But these are over here—the cold clear cheek
    Has neither tears nor blushes to discover;
Fear hath no more to shun, nor hope to seek,
    The sorrows and the joys of earth are over.

A little while, and e’en these sad remains
    May stay with those who cherish them no longer;
Vainly the weeper what he loves retains—
    He may not—love is strong—but death is stronger.

Scatter the violets o’er that wan brow,
    And raise that cold form from its last life pillow;
Bear it to where those azure violets grow,
    Then leave it to its rest beneath the willow.

And is this all?—Ah! no—the loved, the dead,
    Have yet another tomb, the heart’s enshrining;
There are the inward tears perpetual shed,
    Grief with all other memories entwining.

Weep for the mourner—not for her who knows
    Life’s latest—aye, and also sweetest slumber;
Peace is around it—only weep for those
    Whom mortal cares and mortal anguish cumber.

It is a desperate grief—an utter gloom—
    To which all after life brings no removing,
To know that deep within the unpitying tomb
    Lies all the heart had in this world for loving.