Letitia Elizabeth Landon Quotes

. . . the clock
Was placed where full the sun-beams fell;—what deep,
Simple morality spoke in those hands,
Going their way in silence, till a sound,
Solemn and sweet, made their appeal to Time,
And the hour spoke its only warning!

For love is like the breathing wind,
That everywhere may entrance find.

Few are the beliefs, still fewer the superstitions of to-day. We pretend to account for everything, till we do not believe enough for that humility so essential to moral discipline. But the dark creed of the fatalist still holds its ground — there is that within us, which dares not deny what, in the still depths of the soul, we feel to have a mysterious predominance. To a certain degree we controul our own actions — we have the choice of right or wrong ; but the consequences, the fearful consequences, lie not with us. Let any one look upon the most important epochs of his life ; how little have they been of his own making — how one slight thing has led on to another, till the result has been the very reverse of our calculations. Our emotions, how little are they under our own controul ! how often has the blanched lip, or the flushed cheek, betrayed what the will was strong to conceal ! Of all our sensations, love is the one which has most the stamp of Fate. What a mere chance usually leads to our meeting the person destined to alter the whole current of our life. What a mystery even to ourselves the influence which they exercise over us. Why should we feel so differently towards them, to what we ever felt before ? An attachment is an epoch in existence — it leads to casting off old ties, that, till then, had seemed our dearest ; it begins new duties ; often, in a woman especially, changes the whole character ; and yet, whether in its beginning, its continuance or its end, love is as little within our power as the wind that passes, of which no man knows whither it goeth or whence it comes.

The scar of fire, the dint of steel,
Are easier than Love's wounds to heal.

My power was but a woman's power;
Yet, in that great and glorious dower
Which Genius gives, I had my part:
I poured my full and burning heart

I know not which is the most fatal gift,
Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled
By stars of bright aspect and evil influence.

Like a human thought in quest
Of a future hour.

THE fountain's low singing is heard on the wind,
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Some to grieve, some to gladden: around them they cast
The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past.
Away in the distance is heard the vast sound,
From the streets of the city that compass it round,
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call;
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.

The sunshine of the morning
Is abroad upon the hills,
With the singing of the green-wood leaves,
And of a thousand rills.

Fiction is but moulding together the materials collected by every day, in real as well as imagined life ; the highest order of excellence carries the impulse along with it. Nature and fortune have this earth for their place of contention, and the victory is too often with the latter.

He must be rich whom I could love,
His fortune clear must be,
Whether in land or in the funds,
'Tis all the same to me.

The weakness of our nature—how soon any strong emotion masters it !

Words are powerless to tell. —
Such the image in my heart, —
Painter, try thy glorious art !

Blue hyacinths!
Oh, do not show them me; they fill my eyes
With tears too soft for such a scene as this.

Oh! moral of enjoyment! — scattered, crushed : —
The pale checks of the few that staid, like ghosts
Haunting the footsteps of departing mirth,
While the bright pictures over them looked down
Almost in mockery.