Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Keepsake, 1832/Edith
EDITH.
BY L. E. L.
Weep not, weep not, that in the spring
We have to make a grave;
The flowers will grow, the birds will sing,
The early roses wave:
And make the sod we 're spreading fair,
For her who sleeps below;
We might not bear to lay her there,
In winter frost and snow.
We never hoped to keep her long,
When but a fairy child,
With dancing step, and birdlike song,
And eyes that only smiled;
A something shadowy and frail
Was even in her mirth;
She look'd a flower that one rough gale
Would bear away from earth.
There was too clear and blue a light
Within her radiant eyes,
They were too beautiful, too bright,
Too like their native skies:
Too changeable the rose which shed
Its colour on her face,
Now burning with a passionate red,
Now with just one faint trace.
She was too thoughtful for her years,
Its shell the spirit wore;
And when she smiled away our fears,
We only feared the more.
The crimson deepen'd on her cheek,
Her blue eyes shone more clear,
And every day she grew more weak,
And every hour more dear.
Her childhood was a happy time,
The loving and beloved;
Yon sky which was her native clime
Hath but its own removed.
This earth was not for one, to whom
Nothing of earth was given;
'Twas but a resting place, her tomb,
Between the world and heaven.