Letitia Elizabeth Landon

How strong is the love of the country in all indwellers of towns !

I rather disdained than coveted the luxuries I saw : alas ! we desire riches more for others than ourselves.

A word — a name —
Conjures the past before me, till it grows
More actual than the present : that — I see
But with the common eyes of daily life,
Imperfect and impatient ; but the past
Out of imagination works its truth,
And grows distinct with poetry.

Like a human thought in quest
Of a future hour.

And there the lovely Lily grew,
The summer's purest flower,
And many a tiny fairy knew
The shelter of its bower,

So much to win, so much to lose, No marvel that I fear to choose.

Oh Genius! fling aside thy starry crown,
Close up thy rainbow wings, and on thy head
Lay dust and ashes — for, this cold drear world
Is but thy prison-house. Alas for him
Who has thy dangerous gifts, for they are like
The fatal ones that evil spirits give, —
Bright and bewildering, leading unto death.

Your Dante ! Homer of the Christian age,
The sacred poet of Faith's mysteries—
Hero of thought—whose gloomy genius plunged
In Styx, and pierced to hell ; and whose deep soul
Was like the abyss it fathomed.

How much we give to other hearts our tone,
And judge of others' feelings by our own!

But not like this is Nature's face,
Though even she must bear the trace
Of the great curse that clings to all ;
Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall :

And when the reckless crowd among
I speak of one sweet art,
How lightly can I name the song,
Which yet has wrung my heart !
That lute and heart alike have chords
Not to be spoken of in words —

Alas, the strange varieties or life !
We live 'mid perils and pleasures, like
Characters 'graven on the sand, or hues
Colouring the rainbow. Wild as a sick fancy
And changeful as a maiden, is this dream,
This brief dream on earth - - - -

Thy voice is sweet, as if it took
Its music from thy face.
And word and mien, and step and look,
Are perfect in their grace.

The city and the crowd unidealise love; and love, in the young warm heart of a girl, should be a dream apart from all commoner emotions — as sweet and as ethereal as the blush with which it is born and dies. Beauty gives its own gracefulness to love — there must be romance blended with the passion inspired by the very lovely face which the mirror reflected.

During slumber's magic reign
Other times shall live again;