Landon in The Literary Gazette 1825/Valedictory
Literary Gazette, 22nd January, 1825, Page 59
ORIGINAL POETRY.
VALEDICTORY STANZAS.
Thy voice is yet upon mine ear,
I cannot lose the tone,
Altho' I know what vanity
Has made my heart its own;
For well I know I cannot be
All thou hast made thyself to me.
I flung me on my couch, to sleep,
But there no slumber came:
I caught a sound, then blush'd to think
l nam’d aloud thy name:
How could I let one breath of air
The secret of my heart declare!
That is the only blush, whose red
Has lit my cheek for thee;
And even that blush had not burnt,
Had there been one to see.
Oh, never might my spirit brook
Another on its depths to look!
I hear thee nam'd by those who keep
Thy image in their heart;
I envy them, that they may say
How very dear thou art.
And yet, methinks, Love may not be
Kept better than in secresy.
I blush not when I hear thy name;
I sigh not for thy sake;
And tho' my heart may break, yet still
It shall in silence break.
I have, at least, enough of pride,
If not to heal, mу wound to hide.
'Т is strange, how in things most remote
Love will some likeness find;
It is as an electric chain
Were flung upon the mind—
Making each pulse in unison,
Till they but thrill and throb as one.
I fly myself, as crowds could steal
The arrow from my heart;
But there ten thousand things recall
Scenes in which thou hadst part.
In crowds alone it was we met:
How can they teach me to forget?
Wearied, I turn to solitude;
But all the dreams are gone,
Which once upon mу quiet hours
Like fairy pageants shone:
I feel too vividly, to be
Longer amused by phantasy.
I look upon the poet's page,
My tear-fill'd eye grows dim;
I heard him once their numbers breathe,
And now they breathe of him.
Less present to mine eye than ear,
His silver voice is all I hear.
Farewell! go join the careless world,
As gay, as cold, as free;
A passing dream, a moment's thought,
Is all that I would be.
I wish—but that brief glance allow'd,
We fling upon an evening cloud.
I would not be beloved by thee;
I know too well the fate
That waits upon the heart, which must
Its destiny create.
A spirit, passionate as mine,
Lights only to consume its shrine.
I was not born for happiness;
From my most early hours
My hopes have been too brilliant fires,
My joys too fragile flow’rs.
An evil star shines over me;
I would not it were felt by thee!
Farewell! Yet wherefore say farewell?
Mine are no parting words:
I do not wish to wake one tone
Upon thy memory's chords.
Low, still and deep as mine, can be
Content with its idolatry.L. E. L.