Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Bijou, 1828/Sans Souci
T. Stothard, R.A. Engraved by R. Brandard. SANS SOUCI. Published by William Pickering, Chancery Lane, Sept'r 1827 |
SANS SOUCI.
By L. E. L.
Come ye forth to our revel by moonlight,
With your lutes and your spirits in tune;
The dew falls to-night like an odour,
Stars weep o'er our last day in June.
Come maids leave the loom and its purple,
Though the robe of a monarch were there;
Seek your mirror, I know 'tis your dearest,
And be it to-night your sole care.
Braid ye your curls in their thousands,
Whether dark as the raven's dark wing,
Or bright as that clear summer colour,
When sunshine lights every ring.
On each snow ankle lace silken sandal,
Don the robes like the neck they hide white;
Then come forth like planets from darkness,
Or like lilies at day-break's first light.
Is there one who half regal in beauty,
Would be regal in pearl and in gem;
Let her wreath her a crown of red roses,
No rubies are equal to them.
Is there one who sits languid and lonely,
With her fair face bowed down on her hand,
With a pale cheek and glittering eyelash,
And careless locks 'scaped from their band.
For a lover not worth that eye's tear-drop,
Not worth that sweet mouth's rosy kiss,
Nor that cheek though 'tis faded to paleness;
I know not the lover that is.
Let her bind up her beautiful tresses;
Call her wandering rose back again;
And for one prisoner 'scaping her bondage,
A hundred shall carry her chain.
Come, gallants, the gay and the graceful,
With hearts like the light plumes ye wear;
Eyes all but divine light our revel,
Like the stars in whose beauty they share.
Come ye, for the wine cups are mantling,
Some clear as the morning's first light;
Others touched with the evening's last crimson,
Or the blush that may meet ye to night.
There are plenty of sorrows to chill us,
And troubles last on to the grave;
But the coldest glacier has its rose-tint,
And froth rides the stormiest wave.
Oh! Hope will spring up from its ashes,
With plumage as bright as before;
And pleasures like lamps in a palace,
If extinct, you need only light more.
When one vein of silver's exhausted,
'Tis easy another to try;
There are fountains enough in the desert,
Though that by your palm-tree be dry:
When an India of gems is around you,
Why ask for the one you have not?
Though the roc in your hall may be wanting,
Be contented with what you have got.
Come to-night, for the white blossomed myrtle
Is flinging its love-sighs around;
And beneath like the veiled eastern beauties,
The violets peep from the ground.
Seek ye for gold and for silver,
There are both on these bright orange-trees;
And never in Persia the moonlight
Wept o'er roses more blushing than these.
There are fireflies sparkling by myriads,
The fountain wave dances in light;
Hark! the mandolin's first notes are waking,
And soft steps break the sleeping of night.
Then come all the young and the graceful,
Come gay as the lovely should be,
'Tis much in this world's toil and trouble,
To let one midnight pass Sans Souci.