Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1835/Corfu
Now, doth not summer's sunny smile
Sink soft o'er that Ionian isle,
While round the kindling waters sweep
The murmured music of the deep,
The many melodies that swell
From breaking wave and red-lipp'd shell?
Love mine! how sweet it were to leave
This weary world of ours behind,
And borrow from the blushing eve
The wild wings of the wandering wind?
Would we not flee away and find
Some lonely cave beside the shore?
One, where a Nereid dwelt of yore,
And sheltered in its glistening bowers,
A love almost as fond as ours?
A diamond spar incrusts the walls,
A rainbow light from crystal falls;
And, musical amid the gloom,
A fountain's silvery showers illume
The further darkness, as with ray
And song it finds its sparkling way.
A natural lute and lamp—a tone,
A light, to wilder waves unknown.
The cave is curtain'd with the vine,
And inside wandering branches twine,
While from the large green leaves escape
The blooming clusters of the grape;—
Fruit with such hyacinthine glow
As southern sunbeams only know.
We will not leave it, till the moon
Lulls with her languid look the sea;
Sleep, shadow, silence for the noon,
But midnight Love to wake with thee.
When the sweet myrtle trees exhale
The odours of their blossoms pale,
And dim and purple colours steep
Those blossoms in their perfumed sleep;
Where closed are the cicala's wings,
And no leaf stirs, nor wild bird sings,
Lull'd by the dusk air, warm and sweet;
Then kneeling, dearest, at thy feet,
Thy face the only sight I see,
Thy voice the only sound I hear,
While midnight's moonlit mystery
Seems the full heart's enchanted sphere.
Then should thy own low whisper tell
Those ancient songs thou lov'st so well;
Tales of old battles which are known
To me but from thy lip alone;
Dearer than if the bard again
Could sound his own imperial strain.
Ah, folly! of such dreaming hours,
That are not, that may not be ours.
Farewell! thou far Ionian isle
That lighted for my love awhile,
A sweet enchantment formed to fade,
Of darker days my life is made;
Embittering my reality
With dreams of all that may not be.
Such fairy fancies when they part,
But leave behind a withered heart;
Dreaming o'er all it hath not known;
Alas! and is such heart mine own?