Landon in The Literary Gazette 1835/The Lovely Little Flower
2
Literary Gazette, 3rd January, 1835, Pages 11-12
The Lovely little Flower.—Goethe.
I know a lovely little flower, a flower for which I pine—
I would go gather it, but bars my heavy hours confine;
Oh, grief, when free, how easily that little flower was mine!
How dark and stern the wooded rocks around my tower ascend!
In vain to seek my little flower a weary look I send,
Or knight or serf who brought it me should be my dearest friend.
The Rose.
'Tis I, the Rose! thy prison-grate has kept us long apart;
But noble is thy spirit, Knight, ill-fated as thou art,
Since she that is the queen of flowers is queen too of thy heart.
The Knight.
Now honour to thy purple, beneath its green moss dress,
Fair maidens grow more fair who wreath with thee each auburn tress;
But thou art not the flower I ask to soothe my loneliness.
The Lily.
A haughty beauty is the Rose, she claims the highest place;
But not so dear as that I hold in the true lover's grace,
If his heart beat with love as pure as is my angel face.
The Knight.
Oh, Ladye Lily, my true heart is clear and pure like thee,
Yet cast in prison, long and lone, my weary lot must be—
Still, image of the maid I love, there's one more dear to me.
The Carnation.
That must be me—the gardener's joy and constant care am I;
For beautiful are my striped leaves with many a varied dye—
And odours through my summer-life within those colours lie.
The Knight.
Oh, stately flower, thy radiant leaves arose when morning shone—
Thou settest with the setting sun—yet thou art not mine own:
I ask a little drooping flower that blossometh alone.
The Violet.
I stand amid my large dark leaves, a little hidden flower—
I seldom speak;—if now I break the silence of my bower,
It is to grieve I cannot send my perfume to thy tower.
The Knight.
I love the gentle Violet, so modest and so sweet,
Still it is not the darling one my eyes desire to greet—
The little love on this steep rock, alas, you may not meet.
Beside a brook the truest maid now roams with many a tear—
She seeks a little azure flower amid the waters clear—
She gathers it, and I can feel its influence even here!
Strong is the faith of loving hearts it whispereth to me!
Though long within a prison's walls my heavy lot must be,
Yet am I borne in mem'ry by the true and by the free.
Oh, were I sinking to the grave I often ask in vain,
And welcome Death stood by to loose the wasted captive's chain—
Ah, name me the Forget-me-not, I'd wake to life again!