Landon in The Literary Gazette 1823/Different Thoughts; Suggested by a Picture by G. S. Newton
Literary Gazette, 22nd March 1823, Page 189
ORIGINAL POETRY.
POETICAL CATALOGUE OF PICTURES.
[To be continued occasionally.]
DIFFERENT THOUGHTS;
Suggested by a Picture by G. S. Newton, No. 16,
in the British Gallery, and representing a Girl
looking at her Lover's Miniature.
Which is the truest reading of thy look?
Just one look before I sleep,
Just one parting glance, to keep
On my heart and on my brain
Every line and feature plain,
In sweet hopes that they may be
Present in those dreams to me,
Which the gentle night-hour brings
Ever on her starry wings.
I have heard the deep tolled chime
Of the moonlight vesper time—
Scarcely seems one hour-glass run,
Since beneath the setting sun
Hill and vale were red, and I
And Olave looked upon the sky,
And said, or ere the grapes, which now
Shone green gems in the sunset glow,
Might darken, that we two should be
Linked in gentlest unity;
And the soft twilight came on
Ere our pleasant words were done;
Stars were glancing overhead
When our last 'Good night!' was said:
Since, I've sat and watched this brow
(Not so beautiful as thou,
Yet thy shadow) in the light
Of the fair moon. Now, Good night!
By the dawn-blush I must wake,
Olave, if but for thy sake:
We have flowers to plant and cull,—
Our home must be beautiful;
Waking, I must dream no more,
Night has lovelier dreams in store.
Picture dear, farewell to thee,
Be thine image left with me!
Yes, every lineament of thine
Full well the painter's skill hath given;
That forehead the proud spirit's shrine,
The lightning of that eye's dark heaven.
Yes, here at least thou art the same
As once thou wert in years departed,
When truth and love shone o'er thy name,
Or ere I knew thee cold, false hearted!
How many a dark and bitter thought
These pictured features now awaken!
There is no balm by memory brought,
To hopes betrayed, to hearts forsaken.
Those whose life's Summer-path has been
A fairy round of light and pleasure,
May well recall each vanished scene—
To them remembrance is a treasure;
But those whose year has only known
The clouds, the coldness of December,
Why should they pause on moments gone?
’Tis searing wounds when they remember.
Drear was the hour of youth to me,
My hopes were stars that fell when lightest;
But one sweet dream still clung to Thee,
My first, my best, my last, my brightest!
Would I could live that time again,
When life was but a void without thee!
To me 'twere worth an age of pain
To feel once more I did not doubt thee.
But, like this picture-frame, thy heart
Is but a gilded toy, concealing
A darker and a meaner part,
Bright coloured, but cold and unfeeling!
Farewell to love for ever past,
Farewell to the dear hopes that leave me!
I'd almost, could that bid them last,
Wish that thou couldst again deceive me!
I must turn from this idol: I am kneeling
With vows and homage only made for heaven;
I must turn from this idol. I have been
Like to a child who plays with poisoned arrows,
And then is wounded by them. I have yielded,
Foolishly, fondly yielded, to the love
Which is a curse and sickness to me now.
I am as one who sleeps beneath the power
Of some wild dream; hopes, fears, and burning throbs
Of strange delight, dizzy anxieties,
And looks and words dwelt upon overmuch,
Fill up my feverish circle of existence.
My spirit wanders wildly: all in vain!
I would bring order to my troubled thoughts;
Like autumn leaves scattered by driving gales,
They wander round. Once my heart's sleep was calm
As a young bird's beneath its parent wing;
That quiet is no more! for Love hath breathed
Upon my heart, and with him came a train
Of visionary things:—impatient hope,
Sickening of its own vanity; and more
Than all, concealment preys upon me; life
But animate with emotion, which must yet
Be hidden fire. Oh, I must, I must
Turn from this idol! Our love is forbidden—
You are above me, and in loving you—
Oh God! I dare not think to what that leads:
I dare not think on all I have been told
Of all man's cruelty to woman—how
He will soothe, flatter, vow, till he has won,
And then repay her confidence with ruin,
Leaving her trusting heart a desolate place,
Herself an outcast with an unwept grave,
Perhaps unhallowed too—her last lone refuge.
I've more than loved,—oh I have worshipped you;
I have thought, spoken, dreamt of you alone,
And deep has been my misery! my cheek
Has burnt even to pain when you were named;
I have sat hours thinking o'er your last words,
Have sought my couch for solitude, not sleep,
And wept, I only know how bitterly.
I have no joy in pleasure: all I took
A pride in, once, has lost its interest now;
The days I see you not, to me are blanks,
And yet I shrink from meeting you! I have
Insulted heaven with prayers (prayers not to love you,)
And then have trembled lest they should be heard.
I must forget all this: the veins that throb
In agony will surely learn from time
A calm and quiet pulse; yet I will own,
Though woman's weakness is in the confession,
I never could have nerved my soul to this,
But that I know you wavering and weak,
Passionate, but unsteady; born to win
Hearts, but not keep them. Tell me not you love
Intensely, wholly, well, as I have done.
But oh, farewell, farewell! I give thy portrait
To the red flames,—it is a sacrifice
On which I swear forgetfulness! L. E. L.