Landon in The Literary Gazette 1834/The History of the Lily
5
Literary Gazette, 7th June, 1834, Page 401
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE HISTORY OF THE LILY.
It grew within a lonely dell,
Where other flowers were growing,
A sweet companionship, to tell
How fair the spring was blowing.
Like some lorn lady, mournfully
With love unpitied drooping,
And head declined, a young ash-tree
Above the bank was stooping.
So when the hottest sunbeams came,
They fell with softened splendour;
Green shadows made the noontide flame
Almost as moonlight tender.
And violets around them grew,
And, in the rainy weather,
Opened their urns of April blue,
And flung forth sweets together.
And o'er the pebbles a small brook
Its pleasant chime was ringing;
So just escaped from bench and book,
A joyous child goes singing.
The bees came every sunny noon,
And gathered golden treasure,
And with their blithe wings' lulling tune
Paid for their morning's pleasure.
And there the lovely Lily grew,
The summer's purest flower,
And many a tiny fairy knew
The shelter of its bower,
And left the perfume of her hair
Within its fragrant bosom;—
The youngest, from the midnight air,
Was pillowed in that blossom,
And breathed within its haunted cell
A charm of gentle fancies—
Such dreams and hopes as form the spell
Of early youth's romances.
That fairy charm, when it was reft,
Was in its petals sleeping;
When borne from its green home it left
Its sweet companions weeping.
And yet it was a happy hour,
The one when it was dying;
In sooth it was a favoured flower,
Though bloom and breath were flying.
'Twas pleasant so to fade away,
With fond eyes on it gazing,
And wishing that it still could stay,
With words of tender praising.
It died as I could wish to die,
Untouched by coming sorrow;
No drooping head—no languid eye—
Such as would come to-morrow.
Youth has its own appointed hours;
But ere we tell their number,
Are they not like the withered flowers
Which some dark grave encumber?
When hope—the lark which only sings
Its music to the morning—
Lends the young step its buoyant wings,
Life's duller path-way scorning.
They do not last; shade after shade
Come darkly sweeping round us,
Till one dull atmosphere is made,
And earth's worst chain has bound us—
Its selfish cares, whose subtle links
Control the heart's wild beating—
Till each fine impulse, snail-like shrinks,
Within itself retreating.
Its heartlessness, its cold deceit,
The unkindness of the many—
Till grown ourselves like those we meet,
We are as false as any.
But thou didst perish in thy prime,
Sweet Lily, in thy sweetness;
No cause, in thy sole summer time,
Hadst thou to mourn its fleetness;
Do the blue violets weep for thee,
The friends of thy green dwelling?
And mid the cowslip bells the bee
A gentle dirge is knelling.
The lonely bird that sings at night,
A few sad notes will give thee;
And there are dreams of past delight,
Whose pleasures cannot leave thee.
The poetry of all sweet thought
That memory can discover,
And words, and looks, by fancy brought,
Around thy pale buds hover.
Then sleep like an embalmed one,
Amid joy’s precious embers;
Thy spirit and my heart are gone
To what the past remembers.
L. E. L.