From The New Yorker, 16th December 1837, page 612
THE NIGHT-BLOWING CONVOLVULUS.
BY L. E. L.
Not to the sunny hours
That waken other flowers,
Dost thou fling forth the odour[1] of thy sighing
But in the time of gloom,
Is yielded thy perfume,
Like Love, that lives when all beside is dying.
Mournful the chamber where
Thou dost embalm the air!
Familiar long with watching and with weeping,
An anxious circle gaze
Upon the moonlit rays,
Amid the tranquil waves of ocean sleeping.
Far on the waters wild;
Far from his wife and child,
For his sake, reckless on their quiet pillow;
More restless than his own,
He who is careless thrown,
Where sweeps the southern wind, where swells the billow.
Long have they watched and wept,
And bitter reckoning kept
Of days, alas! that seem to have no ending;
The hourly prayer unwon,
They see the setting sun
Upon some unbroken sea descending.
To every passing cloud
A fancy is allowed;
It is the fair ship, through the water springing!
Ah, no! not yet the gale
Expands her homeward sail!
Him whom they have so long expected bringing.
- ↑ Landon's original spelling, odor in the American version
