Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1836/The Phantom
54
THE PHANTOM.
I come from my home in the depth of the sea,
I come that thy dreams may be haunted by me;
Not as we parted, the rose on my brow,
But shadowy, silent, I visit thee now.
The time of our parting was when the moon shone,
Of all heaven’s daughters the loveliest one;
No cloud in her presence, no star at her side,
She smiled on her mirror and vassal, the tide.
Unbroken its silver, undreamed of its swell,
There was hope, and not fear, in our midnight farewell;
While drooping around were the wings white and wild,
Of the ship that was sleeping, as slumbers a child.
I turned to look from thee, to look on the bower,
Which thou hast been training in sunshine and shower;
So thick were the green leaves, the sun and the rain
Sought to pierce through the shelter from summer in vain.
It was not its ash-tree, the home of the wren,
And the haunt of the bee, I was thinking of then;
Nor yet of the violets, sweet on the air,
But I thought of the true love who planted them there.
I come to thee now, my long hair on the gale,
It is wreathed with no red rose, is bound with no veil,
It is dark with the sea damps, and wet with the spray,
The gold of its auburn has long past away.
And dark is the cavern wherein I have slept,
There the seal and the dolphin their vigil have kept;
And the roof is incrusted with white coral cells,
Wherein the strange insect that buildeth them dwells.
There is life in the shells that are strewed o’er the sands,
Not filled but with music as on our own strands;
Around me are whitening the bones of the dead,
And a starfish has grown to the rock overhead.
Sometimes a vast shadow goes darkly along,
The shark or the sword-fish, the fearful and strong:
There is fear in the eyes that are glaring around,
As they pass like the spectres of death without sound:
Over rocks, without summer, the dull sea-weeds trail,
And the blossoms that hang there are scentless and pale;
Amid their dark garlands, the water-snakes glide,
And the sponge, like the moss, gathers thick at their side.
Oh! would that the sunshine could fall on my grave,
That the wild flower and willow could over it wave;
Oh! would that the daisies grew over my sleep,
That the tears of the morning could over me weep.
Thou art pale ’mid the dreams, I shall trouble no more,
The sorrow that kept me from slumber is o’er:
To the depths of the ocean in peace I depart,
For I still have a grave greener far in thy heart!