Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1835/The Grecian Garden

by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

ANCIENT GARDEN

Drawn by F. Danby R. A.Engraved by W. Hill

THE GRECIAN GARDEN.

BY MISS L. E. LANDON.

I.

'Tis lonely as my own sad heart,
    ’Tis silent as my own still lute,
Fair garden—lovely as thou art,
    Thy walks are lorn, thy songs are mute.
The sun-set's melancholy beam
    Falls o'er thy vases' sculptured snow,
These urns for roses made, now seem
    As if the dead were laid below.

II.

The statues wear a sterner brow
    Than they were wont to wear of old;
The blossoms, drooping from the bough,
    Leave half sweet summer's tale untold.
Droop, droop, pale flowers, for ye are mine;
    Your early doom my own will be;
Give me some sympathising sign
    That nature sorroweth with me.

III.

Ah! folly—yonder solemn sky
    Is not for pity, but for prayer;
And Nature's universal eye
    Weeps not, though one wrung heart despair.
Oh wind! that with a noiseless wing
    Art wandering 'mid the olive grove,
In vain I ask of thee to bring
    Some solace for my grief and love.

IV.

Let echo, by thy voice, reveal
    All I would ask the wind to tell;
Echo might surely pity feel,
    For sorrow she hath known so well.
Ah! bring me one beloved face,
    Ah! breathe me one beloved name:
I wish I could one moment trace
    His path of fortune, and of fame.

V.

Yet wherefore should I seek to know
    The path that I may never share;
Oh! flower, that for the sun dost blow,
    Say thou how dear is such fond care.
Life cannot fling again the gleam
    First flung on morning's glancing tide;
I'd rather keep its sweet sad dream
    Than win a waking world beside.

VI.

How often in his purple wine
    He's bathed the red rose from my hair,
And said, "The cup is pale, love mine!
    Unless what breathes of thee be there."
When others in his halls rejoice,
    And wake the lute, and lead the choir
Ah! does he miss Ione's voice,
    And does he miss Ione's lyre?

VII.

I will not call him false, but changed;
    Some change the wanderer may restore;
Alas! the heart, when once estranged,
    Returns to its first faith no more.
I only ask to weep apart,—
    Reproach I scorn,—regret is vain;
Yet, idol of my dreaming heart,
    You'll never be so loved again.