Egmont:
The Egmont of yon city — he is proud,
And cold, and stern, and sorrowful. He keeps
His counsel to himself. He wears a brow
That is a smiling … - Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Egmont: The Egmont of yon city — he is proud, And cold, and stern, and sorrowful. He keeps His counsel to himself. He wears a brow That is a smiling shadow to his heart : Perplexed with seeming mirth, that shroudeth care. Exalted by a giddy populace, That know not what they laud, or what they seek. Moving 'mid those who understand him not ; Whom he has naught in common with : and worn By furious guarding 'gainst familiar friends Who seem, yet are not. Watched, suspected, feared ; Wearied with labour, which hath neither end Nor yet reward ; but only distant hope. Such is the Egmont of the field and state. But thine beloved : he is happy, frank, Open, and known to that most dear of hearts — Which he knows, too, and trusts it as his own. Calm, deeply joyful ; such is Egmont now.
English
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Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Letitia Elizabeth Landon (August 14, 1802 – October 15, 1838) was an English poet and novelist, better known by her initials L. E. L. She was one of the richest sources of epigrams in the early nineteenth century and one reviewer compared her to Rochefoucauld. Sometimes she adopts an adversarial role, giving contradictory viewpoints. Some of her thoughts recur, either developed or refined, but over time she also threw out differing opinions on some subjects; changeability, she argues, is one of our principal traits and, as she has one character remark, truth is like the philosopher's stone, a thing not to be discovered.
Her face was all too bright for tears, she gave Sighs to the wind, and weeping to the wave, And left a lesson unto after-times, Too little dwelt upon in minstrel rhymes, A lesson how inconstancy should be Repaid again by like inconstancy.
I have such eagerness of hope To benefit my kind; And feel as if immortal power Were given to my mind.
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No book is fairly judged till it is read twice, and at distant periods. It is curious to note the variation of taste in ourselves. I can remember I devoured the story keenly, dwelt on all that partook of sentiment, and never questioned the depth of any remark. I now find that I take chief interest in what brings out character. I enter more into the humourous, and am every now and then tempted to analyse the truth of a deduction. I think more over what I am reading, and delight more in connecting the world of fiction with that of reality.
