Such as the lute, touch'd by no hand Save by an angel's, wakes and weeps, Such is the sound that now to land From the charmed water sweeps. - Letitia Elizabeth Landon

What is the light of a poet's name,
If it is not his country that hallows his fame?
Where may he look for guerdon so fair
As the honour and praise that await him there?
His name will be lost and his grave forgot,
If the tears of his country preserve them not! . . .

Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air,
Half sleep, half song--half false, half true,
As if the wind that brought them there
Had touched them with its music too.

To love, to be beloved again, and know
A gulf between us:—aye, 'tis misery!
This agony of passion, this wild faith,
Whose constancy is fruitless, yet is kept
Inviolate:—to feel that all life's hope,
And light, and treasure, clings to one from whom
Our wayward doom divides us. Better far
To weep o'er treachery or broken vows,—
For time may teach their worthlessness:—or pine
With unrequited love;—there is a pride
In the fond sacrifice—the cheek may lose
Its summer crimson; but at least the rose
Has withered secretly—at least, the heart
That has been victim to its tenderness,
Has sighed unechoed by some one as true,
As wretched as itself.