Letitia Landon in Pictorial Album; or, Cabinet of Paintings for the year 1837/The Carrier Pigeon
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THE CARRIER PIGEON.
Painted in Oil Colours by G. Baxter (Patentee) from a Painting by Miss F. Corbaux.
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, STRAND.
THE CARRIER PIGEON.
Ah, gentle bird, that, on my heart now lying,
Art far more tranquil than what beats below;
With thy soft eyes unto mine own replying,
Sweet pleading for the love which they bestow.
I am to thee a queen, and my dominion
Is absolute upon thy sunny flight;
For me thou dost restrain thy arrowy pinion—
To me thou comest with the coming night.
'Neath the soft shadow of thy wing thou bearest
The scroll, which is to me of life or death;
The likeness of my love to me thou wearest,
He kissed thy plumes, still fragrant with his breath.
How weary is the golden noon which covers
Our valleys with the loveliness of light;
Dearer the purple twilight when it hovers
O’er the far mountain, and thy homeward flight.
Above my head the cool green myrtles twining,
Shelter the rose while blushing into bloom;
There the pale jasmine like a star is shining,
But faint, as languid with its own perfume.
I love them not—I dwell among them lonely;
By other influence my soul is stirred:
My heart hath only room for him—him only,
For whose sake thou art loved, my gentle bird.
Too much I love him; 'tis a fatal error
To live but in another's life, and be
For ever vexed by one perpetual terror,
Lest when apart his thoughts are not with me.
I tremble with my passionate emotion,
If any careless lip but name his name;
I worship him with such entire devotion,
That all to me seem as they felt the same.
Alas! It is so natural to love him;
I am so happy when I meet his eyes;
What have I done that fate should now remove him,
Who takes the sunshine from my native skies?
I think upon him when the stars are keeping
Their weary watch above a world like ours;
If sleep forgets him, I reproach my sleeping;
Ah, only bring his shade, ye dreaming powers!
Another scroll is ready; sad and slowly
Will the long moments waste till thy return;
I ponder on the past, pale, melancholy,
As one who droops above a funeral urn.
Tell him, of all the beauty he remembers,
How much has wandered with himself away;
My weary heart mourns 'mid the cold wan embers
Of hopes, that perish with his long delay.