Landon site links: Home Page , Bibliography , Biography , Corvey Holdings , Corvey Project , Criticism and Context , E-Mail , Introduction , Related Sites , Sample Texts , SHU English
Love! summer flower, how soon thou art decayed!
Opening amid a paradise of sweets,
Dying with withered leaves and cankered stem!
The very memory of thy happiness
Departed with thy beauty; breath and bloom
Gone, and the trusting heart which thou hadst made
So green, so lovely, for thy dwelling-place,
Left but a desolation.
'Twas one of those sweet spots which seem just made
For lovers' meeting, or for minstrel haunt;
The maiden's blush would look so beautiful
By those white roses, and the poet's dream
Would be so soothing, lulled by the low notes
The birds sing to the leaves, whose soft reply
Is murmured by the wind: the grass beneath
Is full of wild flowers, and the cypress boughs
Have twined o'er head, graceful and close as love.
The sun is shining cheerfully, though scarce
His rays may pierce through the dim shade, yet still
Some golden hues are glancing o'er the trees,
And the blue flood is gliding by, as bright
As Hope's first smile. All, lingering, stayed to gaze
Upon this Eden of the painter's art,
And looking on its loveliness, forgot
The crowded world around them!--But a spell
Stronger than the green landscape fixed the eye--
The spell of woman's beauty!--By a beech
Whose long dark shadow fell upon the stream,
There stood a radiant girl!--her chesnut hair--
One bright gold tint was on it--loosely fell
In large rich curls upon a neck whose snow
And grace were like the swan's; she wore the garb
Of her own village, and her small white feet
And slender ancles, delicate as carved
From Indian ivory, were bare,--the turf
Seemed scarce to feel their pressure. There she stood!
Her head leant on her arm, the beech's trunk
Supporting her slight figure, and one hand
Prest to her heart, as if to still its throbs!--
You never might forget that face,--so young,
So fair, yet traced with such deep characters
Of inward wretchedness! The eyes were dim,
With tears on the dark lashes; still the lip
Could not quite lose its own accustomed smile,
Even by that pale cheek it kept its arch
And tender playfulness: you looked and said,
What can have shadowed such a sunny brow?
There is so much of natural happiness
In that bright countenance, it seems but formed
For Spring's light sunbeams, or yet lighter dews.
You turned away--then came--and looked again,
Watching the pale and silent loveliness,
Till even sleep was haunted by that image.
There was a severed chain upon the ground--
Ah! love is even more fragile than its gifts!
A tress of raven hair:--oh, only those
Whose souls hve felt this one idolatry,
Can tell how precious is the slightest thing
Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower
Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks
That made each leaf a treasure. And the tree
Had two slight words graven upon its stem--
The broken heart's last record of its faith--
"Adieu, Henri!" . . . .
. . . I learnt the history of the lovely picture:
It was a peasant girls', whose soul was given
To one as far above her as the pine
Towers o'er the lowly violet; yet still
She loved, and was beloved again--ere yet
The many trammels of the world were flung
Around a heart, whose first and latest pulse
Throbbed but for beauty: him, the young, the brave
Chivalrous Prince, whose name in after-years
A nation was to worship--that young heart
Beat with its first wild passion--that pure feeling
Life only once may know. I will not dwell
On how Affection's bark was launched and lost:--
Love, thou hast hopes like Summers, short and bright,
Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams,
Intense delicious throbs! But happiness
Is not for thee. If ever thou hast known
Quiet, yet deep enjoyment, 'tis or ere
Thy presence is confessed; but, once revealed,
We bow us down in passionate devotion
Vowed to thy altar, then the serpents wake
That coil around thy votaries--hopes that make
Fears burning arrows--lingering jealousy,
And last worst poison of thy cup--neglect! . . .
. . . It matters little how she was forgotten,
Or what she felt--a woman can but weep.
She prayed her lover but to say Farewell--
To meet her by the river where such hours
Of happiness had pass'd, and said she knew
How much she was beneath him; but she prayed
That he would look upon her face once more!
. . . He sought the spot--upon the beechen tree
"Adieu, Henri!" was graven, and his heart
Felt cold within him! He turned to the wave,
And there the beautiful peasant floated--Death
Had sealed love's sacrifice! . . .