Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1833/Futtypore Sicri

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1833-52-Futtypore Sicri.png


Artist: W. Purser - Engraved by: W. Brandard



THE summer palace of the king,
Whose lightest word was enough to bring
Every gem and every flower,
To light his hall—and to wreath his bower.
Can you not fancy the summer-time,
Such as it is in a southern clime?
Can you not fancy the glorious home,
To which the conq’ring monarch would come,
When the sabre was sheath’d, and the struggle was done,
And the red banner waved for the victory won,
And the rudest of sights or of sounds on the gale,
Was the fall of a footstep—the wave of a veil?

I cannot; I think of the victor’s red hand,
Which swept its own kindred in blood from the land,
Which sundered the ties that in youth are entwined,
When the heart is most warm, and the temper most kind.
The grave has its vengeance—the dead have their power
In the terrible silence of midnight’s dark hour,
When each shade is a spectre—and winds have a tone,
To the ear of the innocent sleeper unknown;
When the visions ascend from the depths of the tomb,
And strange shadows flit thro’ the spectral room.
Spread ye the purple, and pour ye the wine,
Let the incense arise till the room be a shrine;
Wreathe the bright tresses—let sweet voices sing,
They chase not the past from thy spirit, O king;
From the dead and their shadows thou never may’st flee,

And the blood thou hast shed is for ever with thee.