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POEMS TO lANTHE 
 
 by 
 
 Walter Savage Landor 
 
 ^_^rran^ed, with an Introduction and Notes, by 
 
 FiNLEY M. K. Foster, Ph. D. 
 
 C^ssociate Professor of English in 
 ■^e University of Delaware 
 
 Published by 
 
 •gfe Craftsmen qf Kells 
 
 Newark, Delaware 
 MDCCCCXXII 
 
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 ;i.A(>T459l 
 
 JUH1472 
 
(^^cknow^ledgment 
 
 The editor wishes to thank the Macmillan Com- 
 pany for their permission to print the following 
 material from publications of which they hold the 
 copyright : 
 
 From Letters and Unpublished Writings of 
 Walter Savage Landor edited by Stephen Wheeler : 
 
 The portrait of lanthe. 
 
 ii. "Can not you make the name of Jane 
 
 xxxvii. Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far 
 
 viii. Poplar ! I will not write upon thy rind 
 
 XV. Bid my bosom cease to grieve 
 
 Ixxv. If I am proud, you surely know 
 
 i. To thee, Maria, now within thy tomb 
 
 Ixxxii. Dreamer I ever was by night and day 
 
 Ixxxvii. The violets of thine eyes are faded 
 
 Ixxxviii. For me you wish you could retain 
 
 From Life of Landor by Sidney Colvin (English 
 Men of Letters Series) : 
 
 iii. Sometimes, as boys will do, I play'd at love 
 
Contents 
 
 Introduction 
 
 FIRST LINES 
 
 Ah! could I think there's nought of ill 
 
 All tender thoughts that e'er possest 
 
 Along this coast I led the vacant hours 
 
 Ask me not, a voice severe 
 
 As round the parting ray the busy motes 
 
 A time will come when absence, grief, and years 
 
 Away my verse; and never fear 
 
 "Can not you make my name of Jane 
 Circe, who bore the diadem 
 Clifton ! in vain thy varied scenes invite 
 Come back, ye Smiles, that late forsook 
 Could but the dream of night return by day 
 
 Darling shell, where hast thou been 
 "Do you remember me? or are you proud?" 
 Dreamer I ever was by night and day 
 Dull is my verse: not even thou 
 
 Flow, precious tears! thus shall my rival know 
 For me you wish you could retain 
 From heaven descend two gifts alone 
 
 Go, sole companion of a joyless bed 
 
 Ixxxii 
 Ixxxv 
 
 lanthe! you are call'd to cross the sea 
 
 I can not tell, not I, why she 
 
 I dare not trust my pen, it trembles so 
 
 I draw with trembling hand my doubtful lot 
 
 If I am proud, you surely know 
 
 If mutable is she I love 
 
 I held her hand, the pledge of bliss 
 
 I love to hear that men are bound 
 
 I often ask upon whose arm she leans 
 
 I sadden while I view again 
 
 It often comes into my head 
 
 I wonder not that youth r 
 
 Many may yet recall the hours 
 Maria! I have said adieu 
 Mild is the parting year, and sweet 
 Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers 
 
No, my own love of other years! 
 
 No, thou hast never griev'd, but I griev'd too 
 
 Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far 
 
 O fond, but fickle and untrue 
 One pansy, one, she bore beneath her breast 
 On the smooth brow and clustering hair 
 thou whose happy pencil strays 
 
 Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives 
 
 Pleasure! why thus desert the heart 
 
 Poplar! I will not write upon thy rind 
 
 Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak 
 
 Pursuits! alas, I now have none 
 
 Iviii 
 Ixix 
 xliii 
 
 Say ye that years roll on and ne'er return? 
 She I love (alas in vain!) 
 She leads in solitude her youthful hours 
 Silent, you say, I'm grown of late 
 So late removed from him she swore 
 Sometimes, as boys will do, I play'd at love 
 Soon as lanthe's lip I prest 
 Soon, O lanthe ! life is o'er 
 
 Tears, and tears only, are these eyes that late 
 
 Tears! are they tears indeed? 
 
 Thank Heaven, lanthe, once again 
 
 The heart you cherish can not change 
 
 There are some tears we would not wish to dry 
 
 There are some wishes that may start 
 
 There is a flower I wish to wear 
 
 These are the sights I love to see 
 
 The violets of thine eyes are faded 
 
 Thou hast not rais'd, lanthe, such desire 
 
 To thee, Maria, now within thy tomb 
 
 Versailles! Versailles! thou shalt not keep 
 
 Well I remember how you smiled 
 
 We once were happier; true; but were 
 
 We will not argue, if you say 
 
 Where alders rise up dark and dense 
 
 Where is my heart, perfidious boy 
 
 While the winds whistle round my cheerless room 
 
 While you, my love, are by 
 
 Will you not come, my little girl! 
 
 Years, many parti-colour'd years 
 
 Yes, we shall meet (I knew we should) again 
 
 Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass 
 
 You see the worst of love, but not the best 
 
 You smiled, you spoke, and I believed 
 
 You tell me I must come again 
 
 
 Ixxxvii 
 
 Ixxx 
 
 qL 
 
Introduction 
 
 At an unknown date between the years 1795 and 
 1798 Walter Savage Landor met Sophia Jane Swift 
 at Clifton in South Wales. To her, according to the 
 story told in Nos. ii and iii of this collection, Landor 
 gave the name lanthe. Their friendship, which 
 ripened into love on Landor's part at least, endured 
 for the remainder of their lives. Whether or not 
 Landor seriously proposed marriage is not known. If 
 he did, his suit was rejected; for in 1803 lanthe 
 married her cousin Godwin Swifte. During the next 
 twenty-six years Landor dropped out of lanthe's life. 
 In 1816, Swifte having died in 1814, lanthe married 
 Count Lepelletier de Molande, a Norman nobleman 
 who had emigrated to England. Eleven years later 
 she was again a widow. In the meanwhile Landor had 
 married and had established himself in a villa near 
 Florence. To Florence went lanthe and her children 
 in 1829. The romance of their second meeting is por- 
 trayed in No. Ixxiv, a meeting which renewed their 
 previous friendship and rejuvenated Landor's love for 
 for her. In 1832 Landor returned her visit by spend- 
 ing a few days at her home in Brighton. Throughout 
 these years she had many suitors for her hand, among 
 them the Due de Luxemburg ; but she would have none 
 of them. During the latter part of lanthe's life, 
 Landor saw her at intervals at Bath; for he was at 
 this time separated from his family. However, the 
 old intimacy was never renewed, and Landor was a 
 worshipper from afar. Her death at Versailles in the 
 latter part of July, 1851, brought from Landor one of 
 the most poignantly sorrowful lyrics in all English 
 poetry. 
 
The poems addressed to lanthe fall into three dis- 
 tinct groups: first, those written during the time of 
 Lander's first love for lanthe and of his dejection at 
 the failure of his suit (i - Ixxiii) ; second, those written 
 to lanthe in after years (Ixxiv - Ixxxviii) ; third, those 
 written upon lanthe's death (Ixxxix - xci). 
 
 The love story as told in the poems seems to show 
 that at the outset Landor received great encourage- 
 ment and had some reason to believe his affection was 
 returned. Then followed a visit by lanthe across "the 
 sea"; where or for what purpose we do not know. 
 During this time Landor anxiously awaited her re- 
 turn, only to find when she did come back, that her 
 heart had been bestowed elsewhere. The poems 
 written after this event portray how keenly he felt the 
 loss of one he loved so well. In time his grief abated 
 and he was able to view those years of love more 
 placidly. 
 
 The poems written to lanthe after 1829 show 
 that the old love had reawakened to burn for the re- 
 mainder of his life in a sober, steady flame, a love not 
 passionate but calm and reflecting. For him lanthe 
 had lost none of her charm. His poems to her daughter 
 are but opportunities to cast a reflected glory upon 
 her. His devotion is that of the man who wrote 
 Pericles and Aspasia. 
 
 The last few poems which he wrote upon the 
 death of lanthe make a fitting ending to this love of 
 Landor's which had endured for fifty years and more. 
 They serve to show that the earlier poems, expressed 
 as they sometimes were with the crudeness of youth 
 and affectations learned from earlier poets, were 
 based on no mere flirtation. Landor felt her death 
 deeply and genuinely mourned her passing; but he 
 found his consolation in the thought that he had given 
 her immortality among mortals : 
 
 One name, lanthe, shall not die. 
 
 This, in brief, is the record of the spiritual story 
 of Landor and lanthe. Beginning with all the ve- 
 
hemence of youthful passion, it developed gradually 
 into Platonic devotion which, on the part of Landor at 
 all events, was as genuine as the great philosopher 
 could have desired. 
 
 This little volume is the first attempt to bring to- 
 gether and arrange the poems written to lanthe. In 
 1831 Landor published as part of a volume of poems 
 thirty-one lyrics which he specifically called Poems 
 Addressed to lanthe. In the notes I have indicated 
 which poems these are. In addition to these I have 
 tried to include all the poems which Landor wrote in 
 which the name lanthe appears. Nine more were 
 added from a collection of hitherto unpublished writ- 
 ings of Landor which Mr. Stephen Wheeler published 
 in 1897 ; and one was taken from Mr. Sidney Colvin's 
 Life of Landor. The remaining thirty-three poems 
 were found in the poet's works and are included 
 wholly on the basis of interpretation. 
 
 The inclusion of the last group is, of course, the 
 most difficult to defend. For seven of them I have the 
 assistance of Mr. Colvin's interpretation in maintain- 
 ing their presence. For the remainder I can only plead 
 that internal evidence seems to point to their having 
 been written in connection with the lanthe story. 
 Date of publication is of no importance, for some of 
 the earliest poems Landor published in his last vol- 
 umes. Consequently, with a very real knowledge of 
 the hazards of internal evidence and implied interpre- 
 tation, and with the hope that later studies will verify 
 my conclusions with facts, I have ventured to include 
 them. 
 
 I have arranged the poems in an order which I 
 think will make them tell their own story. Here again 
 the failure of Landor to connect his poems to lanthe 
 in any particular manner, has added to the burden of 
 risk for the editor. By placing them in what seems to 
 be a proper chronological order and by matching like 
 content with like content, I have made an arrangement 
 
which appears plausible. For this reason I have 
 broken up the little collection of thirty-one which 
 Landor published as a unit and placed them in their 
 proper places in this larger edition. They all, with 
 one exception, fall among the poems which deal with 
 the early years and his first love. The exception is the 
 last poem in this book. As Landor placed it last in 
 his group, so I have placed it last in this collection ; for 
 it fits its position admirably. 
 
 In the last analysis, although an editor may do 
 much for an author by logical arrangement and in- 
 telligent annotation, whatever of truth and beauty is 
 present in the work is the author's, and on him its 
 merit depends. Landor has immortalized lanthe, but 
 in the portrayal of his love he has also memorialized 
 himself forever. 
 
The touch sf Love dispels the gloom 
 Of life, and animates the tomb; 
 But never let it idly flare 
 On gazers in the open air, 
 Nor turn it quite aw^ay from one 
 To whom it serves for moon and sun. 
 And who alike in night and day 
 Without it could not find his way. 
 
iTaiilflfi""'tiir""MiM 
 
POEMS TO lANTHE 
 
 Written at sundry times 
 by 
 
 Walter Savage Landor 
 
 L 
 
POEMS TO lANTHE 
 
 Away my verse; and never fear, 
 
 As men before such beauty do; 
 On you she will not look severe, 
 
 She will not turn her eyes from you. 
 Some happier graces could I lend 
 
 That in her memory you should live. 
 Some little blemishes might blend, 
 
 For it would please her to forgive. 
 
 lanthe's Name 
 
 'Cannot you make my name of Jane 
 Sound pleasanter? Now try again,' 
 Said she. At once I thought about 
 The matter, and at last cut out 
 A letter from Greek alphabet. 
 And had it, as I thought, well set; 
 'Twas then 'lanthe.' Soon there came 
 A smart ring'd robber with a claim, 
 You find it in his wardrobe stil. 
 More he would have, but never will. 
 
Sometimes, as boys will do, I play'd at love, 
 Nor fear'd cold weather, nor withdrew in hot; 
 And two who were my playmates at that hour, 
 Hearing me call'd a poet, in some doubt 
 Challenged me to adapt their namnes to song, 
 lone was the first ; her namie is heard 
 Among the hills of Cambria, north and south, 
 But there of shorter stature, like herself; 
 I placed a comedy vowel at its close, 
 And drove an ugly sibilant away. 
 
 lanthe, who came later, smiled and said, 
 
 I have two names and will be praised in both; 
 
 Sophia is not quite enough for me, 
 
 And you have simply named it, and but once. 
 
 Now call the other up — 
 
 I went, and planted in a fresh parterre 
 lanthe ; it was blooming, when a youth 
 Leapt o'er the hedge, and snatching at the stem 
 Broke off the label from my favourite flower, 
 And stuck it on a sorrier of his own. 
 
 Page 
 Two 
 
Thou hast not rais'd, lanthe, such desire 
 
 In any breast as thou hast rais'd in mine. 
 No wandering meteor now, no msu'shy fire, 
 
 Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine : 
 And, if thou chillest me, as chill thou dost 
 
 When I approach too near, too boldly gaze. 
 So chills the blushing morn, so chills the host 
 
 Of vernal stars, with light more chaste than day's. 
 
 Darling shell, where hast thou been. 
 West or East? or heard or seen? 
 From what pastimes art thou come? 
 Can we make amends at home? 
 
 Whether thou hast tuned the dance 
 
 To the maids of ocean 
 Know I not; but Ignorance 
 
 Never hurts Devotion. 
 
 This I know, lanthe's shell, 
 I must ever love thee well, 
 Tho' too little to resound 
 While the Nereids dance around: 
 
 For, of all the shells that are. 
 Thou art sure the brightest; 
 
 Thou, Ismthe's infant care. 
 Most these eyes delightest. 
 
 To thy early aid she owes 
 Teeth like budding snowdrop rows : 
 And what other shell can say 
 On her bosom once it lay? 
 
 That which into Cyprus bore 
 Venus from her native sea, 
 
 (Pride of shells!) was never more 
 Dear to her than thou to me. 
 
Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, 
 Alcestis rises from the shades; 
 
 Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives 
 Immortal youth to mortal maids. 
 
 Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil 
 Hide all the peopled hills you see, 
 
 The gay, the proud, while lovers hail 
 These many summers you and me. 
 
 The tear for fading beauty check, 
 For passing glory cease to sigh, 
 
 One form shall rise above the wreck, 
 One name, lanthe, shall not die. 
 
 From heaven descend two gifts alone; 
 The graceful line's eternal zone 
 
 And Beauty, that too soon must die. 
 Exposed and lonely Genius stands. 
 Like Memnon in the Egyptian sands, 
 
 At whom barbarian javelins fly. 
 
 For mutual succour heaven designed 
 The lovely form and vigorous mind 
 
 To seek each other and unite. 
 Genius ! thy wing shall beat down Hate, 
 And Beauty tell her fears at Fate 
 
 Until her rescuer met her sight. 
 
 Soon, O lanthe! life is o'er. 
 
 And sooner beauty's heavenly smile: 
 Grant only (and I ask no more). 
 
 Let love remain that little while. 
 
 Page 
 
 Four 
 
The heart you cherish can not change; 
 
 The fancy, faint and fond, 
 Has never more the wish to range 
 
 Nor power to rise beyond. 
 
 Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass. 
 Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever; 
 
 From you, lanthe, little troubles pass 
 Like little ripples down a sunny river. 
 
 Come back, ye Smiles, that late forsook 
 Each breezy path auid ferny nook. 
 Come Laughter, though the sage hath said 
 Thou favourest most the thoughtless head: 
 I blame thee not, howe'er inclin'd 
 To love the vacant easy mind; 
 But now am ready, may it please. 
 That mine be vacant and at ease. 
 
 Sweet children of celestial breed, 
 Be ruled by me . . repress your speed. 
 Laughter, though Momus gave thee birth, 
 And said. My darling, stay on earth! 
 Smiles, though from Venus you arise. 
 And live for ever in the skies ! 
 Softly ! and let not one descend 
 But first alights upon my friend. 
 When one upon her cheek appears, 
 A thousand spring to life from hers; 
 Death smites his disappointed urn. 
 And spirit, pleasure, wit, return. 
 
To lanthe 
 With Petrarca's Sonnets 
 
 Behold what homage to his idol paid 
 The tuneful suppliant of Valcluca's shade. 
 His verses still the tender heart engage, 
 They charm'd a rude, and please a polisht age: 
 Some are to nature and to passion true, 
 And all had been so, had he lived for you. 
 
 My basil, to whose fragrance, from the breaist 
 Of Venus, even the myrtle bends her head, 
 
 Say that I broke upon thy sunny rest 
 
 And dreams perhaps by quiet fancies fed, 
 
 Not thoughtless nor in malice; the desire 
 
 That courtly hands should take thee, prompted 
 mine. 
 
 His only daughter thus some country squire 
 
 Sends to her town-bred cousins, spruce and fine : 
 
 He looks for something . . can it then be grace? 
 
 The want that wounds it, softens too his heart; 
 The blushes leave his clear bald brow apace, 
 
 And the stiff steed in beau-ded pride may start. 
 
 It often comes into my head 
 
 That we may dream when we are dead. 
 
 But I am far from sure we do. 
 O that it were so! then my rest 
 Would be indeed among the blest; 
 
 I should for ever dream of you. 
 
She I love (alas in vain!) 
 
 Floats before my slumbering eyes: 
 When she comes she lulls my pain, 
 
 When she goes what pangs su-ise! 
 Thou whom love, whom memory flies, 
 
 Gentle Sleep! prolong thy reign! 
 If even thus she soothe my sighs, 
 
 Never let we wake again ! 
 
 To My Watch 
 
 Go, sole companion of a joyless bed. 
 Nor drive the slumbers from this frantic head. 
 Point not how slow malignant Time departs. 
 How ill agree thy motion and my heau^'s. 
 Why so averse, ye hours, to Cambria's coast? 
 Why cannot sleep still hang o'er tresisures lost, 
 And let me dream that, meeting on the way, 
 lanthe chides, as once, my long delay ! 
 
 "Ah, why this absence ! why, when men possess, 
 Hold they the gift, but love the giver less ! 
 Perhaps some rival I have lived to see. 
 Or hear some other youth has cheums for me. 
 No, in this bosom none shall ever share. 
 Firm is, and tranquil be, your empire there ! 
 If, wing'd with amorous fear, the unfetter'd slave 
 Stole back for you the heart she rashly gave, 
 O call it feeble, call it not untrue. . 
 Its destination, though it fail'd, was you. 
 So, to some distant ile, the unconscious dove 
 Bears at her breeist the billet deau- to love. 
 But drops, while viewless lies the happier scene. 
 On some hard rock or desert beach between." 
 
Could but the dream of night return by day, 
 
 And thus again the true lanthe say, 
 
 "Altho' some other I should live to see 
 
 As fond, no other can have charms for me. 
 
 No, in this bosom none shall ever share. 
 
 Firm is, and tranquil be, your empire there! 
 
 If wing'd with amorous fear the unfetter'd slave 
 
 Stole back the struggling heart she rashly gave, 
 
 Weak, they may call it, weak, but not untrue; 
 
 Its destination, though it fail'd, was you. 
 
 So to some distant isle the unconscious dove 
 
 Bears at her breast the billet dear to love. 
 
 But drops, while viewless lies the happier scene, 
 
 On some hard rock or desert beach between." 
 
 I love to hear that men are bound 
 By your enchanting links of sound: 
 I love to hear that none rebel 
 Against your beauty's silent spell. 
 I know not whether I may bear 
 To see it all, as well as hear; 
 And never shall I clearly know 
 Unless you nod and tell me so. 
 
 These are the sights I love to see: 
 
 I love to see siround 
 Youths breathing haird on bended knee. 
 
 Upon that holy ground 
 My flowers have covered: all the while 
 
 I stand above the rest; 
 I feel within the angelic smile, 
 
 I bless, and I am blest. 
 
 Page 
 Eight 
 
thou whose happy pencil strays 
 Where I am calFd, nor dau-e to gaze, 
 
 But lower my eye and check my tongue ; 
 O, if thou valuest peaceful days, 
 Pursue the ringlet's sunny maze. 
 
 And dwell not on those lips too long. 
 What mists athwart my temples fly, 
 Now, touch by touch, Uiy fingers tie 
 
 With torturing csu-e her graceful zone! 
 For all that sparkles from her eye 
 
 1 could not look while thou art by. 
 
 Nor could I cease were I alone. 
 
 Flow, precious tears ! thus shall my rival know 
 
 For me, not him, ye flow. 
 Stay, precious tears ! ah stay ! this jealous heart 
 
 Would bid you flow apart. 
 Lest he should see you rising o'er the brim, 
 
 And hope you rise for him. 
 Your secret cells, while he is present, keep, 
 
 Nor, tho' I'm absent, weep. 
 
 Will you not come, my little girl! 
 
 What on this sand-hill cam I do? 
 What, but around my finger twirl 
 
 The sever'd lock I stole from you? 
 
 Come, or the wanton wind shall have it. 
 And every whispering breeze shall tell 
 
 How, when you snatcht it back, you gave it. 
 And pouted that you snatcht so well. 
 
While the winds whistle round my cheerless room, 
 And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom; 
 While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands, 
 The ripening harvest and the hoary sands; 
 Alone, and destitute of every page 
 That fires the poet or informs the sage, 
 Where shall my wishes, where my fancy, rove, 
 Rest upon past or cherish promist love? 
 Alcis ! the past I never can regain. 
 Wishes may rise and tears my flow . . in vain. 
 Fancy, that brings her in her earthly bloom. 
 Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb. 
 What then would passion, what would reason, do? 
 Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue. 
 Here will I sit till heaven shall cease to lour 
 And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour. 
 Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea. 
 Think of my love, and bid her think of me. 
 
Retired this hour from wondering crowds 
 
 And flower-fed poets swathed in clouds, 
 
 Now the dull dust is blown away, 
 
 lanthe, list to what I say. 
 
 Verse is not always sure to please 
 
 For lightness, readiness, and ease; 
 
 Romantic ladies like it not 
 
 Unless its steams are strong and hot 
 
 As Melton-Mowbray stables when 
 
 Ill-favoured frost comes back again. 
 
 Tell me no more you feel a pride 
 
 To be for ever at my side. 
 
 To think your beauty will be read 
 
 When all who pine for it are dead. 
 
 I hate a pomp and a parade 
 
 Of what should ever rest in shade; 
 
 What not the slenderest ray should reach. 
 
 Nor whispered breath of guarded speech : 
 
 There even Memory should sit 
 
 Absorbed, and almost doubting it. 
 
Clifton! in vain thy varied scenes invite, 
 The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy hight; 
 The sheep that, stsu^ing from the tufted thyme, 
 Untune the distant church's mellow chime, 
 As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps. 
 And shakes above our heads the craggy steeps. 
 Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower 
 While light and dsu'kness seize the changeful oar, 
 The frolic Naiads drawing from below 
 A net of silver round the black canoe. 
 Now the last lonely solace must it be 
 To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea. 
 Then join my friends and let those friends believe 
 My cheeks are moisten'd by the dews of eve. 
 What voice can charm us, or what view can cheer, 
 Removed from her the restless heart holds dear? 
 Ah, why then, self -tormentor, why removed? 
 Say, thou who lovest, art thou not beloved? 
 Resume thy courage, give thy sorrows o'er — 
 Will not her bosom press thy bosom more? 
 Her clasping arms around thy neck entwine, 
 Her gentle hands be linkt again in thine? 
 Will not her lips again their honied dews impart, 
 And will not rapture swell her answering heart? 
 Soon shall thy exile, and thy grief be closed. 
 By whom but thee, for whom but her, imposed. 
 Through seven days, imperfect, waste and wild, 
 In seven days the whole creation smiled. 
 
Circe, who bore the diadem 
 
 O'er every head we see, 
 Pursued by thousands, turn'd from them 
 
 And fill'd her cup for me. 
 
 She seiz'd what little was design'd 
 To catch a transient view; 
 
 For thee alone she left behind 
 The tender and the true. 
 
 All tender thoughts that e'er possest 
 The human brain or human breast, 
 
 Centre in mine for thee . . 
 Excepting one . . and that must thou 
 Contribute: come, confer it now: 
 
 Grateful I fain would be. 
 
 Twelfth-Night 
 
 I draw with trembling hand my doubtful lot; 
 Yet where are Fortune's frowns if she frown not 
 
 From whom I hope, from whom I fear, the kiss? 
 O gentle Love ! if there be aught beyond 
 That makes the bosom calm, but leaves it fond, 
 
 O let her give me that, and take back this! 
 
If mutable is she I love, 
 
 If rising doubts demand their place, 
 I would adjure them not to move 
 
 Beyond her fascinating face. 
 
 Let it be question'd, while there flashes 
 A liquid light of fleeting blue, 
 
 Whether it leaves the eyes or lashes. 
 Plays on the surface or peeps through. 
 
 With every word let there appear 
 So modest yet so sweet a smile. 
 
 That he who hopes must gently fear. 
 Who fears may fondly hope the while. 
 
 A time will come when absence, grief, and years. 
 Shall change the form and voice that please you 
 now. 
 
 When you perplext shall ask, "And fell my tears 
 Into his bosom? breath'd I there my vow?" 
 
 It must be so, lanthe ! but to think 
 
 Malignant Fate should also threaten you, 
 
 Would make my heart, now vainly buoyant, sink: 
 Believe it not: 'Tis what I'll never do. 
 
"Remember you the guilty night," 
 
 A dying myrtle said, 
 "You snatcht and seized me pale with fright?" 
 
 She paused; I bowed my head. 
 "At every swell more close I prest 
 With jealous care that lovely breast: 
 Of every tender word afraid 
 I cast a broader, deeper shade, 
 And trembled so, I fell between 
 Two angel-guards by you unseen. . 
 Or else your hand had never dared 
 To strip me from their holy ward. . 
 There, pleasures, perils, all forgot, 
 I clung and fainted , . who would not? 
 Yet certainly, this transport over, 
 I should, for who would not? recover. 
 Yes ! I was destined to return 
 And sip anew the crystal urn. 
 Where, with four other sister sprays, 
 I bloom'd away my pleasant days. 
 But less and less, emd less again. 
 Each day, hour, moment, is the pain 
 My little shrivell'd heart endures. . 
 Now can you say the seune for yours? 
 I torn from her, and she from you, 
 That wiser thing can either do, 
 Than with oiu* joys our fears renounce 
 And leave the vacant world at once? 
 When she you fondly love must go. 
 
 Your pangs will rise, but mine will cease. 
 I never shall awake to woe. 
 
 Nor you to happiness or peace." 
 
One pansy, one, she bore beneath her breast, 
 
 A broad white ribbon held that psmsy tight. 
 She waved about nor lookt upon the rest, 
 
 Costly and rare ; on this she bent her sight. 
 I watcht her raise it gently when it droopt; 
 
 I knew she wisht to show it me; I knew 
 She would I saw it rise, to lie unloopt 
 
 Nearer its home, that tender heart! that true! 
 
 You see the worst of love, but not the best, 
 Nor will you know him till he comes your guest. 
 Tho' yearly drops some feather from his sides, 
 In the heart's temple his pure torch abides. 
 
 She leads in solitude her youthful hours. 
 
 Her nights are restless, her days are pain. 
 
 O when will Health and Pleeisure come again, 
 Adorn her brow and strew her path with flowers. 
 And wandering wit relume the roseate bowers, 
 
 And turn and trifle with his festive train? 
 Grant me, O grant me this wish, ye heavenly 
 Powers ! 
 
 All other hope, all other wish, restrain. 
 
 
Have I, this moment, led thee from the beach 
 Into the boat? now far beyond my reach! 
 Stand there a little while, and wave once more 
 That kerchief; but may none upon the shore 
 Dare think the fond salute wJis meant for himi ! 
 Dizzily on the plashing water swim 
 My heavy eyes, and sometimes can attain 
 Thy lovely form, which tears bear off again. 
 In vain have they now ceast; it now is gone 
 Too far for sight, and leaves me here alone. 
 
 could I hear the creaking of the mast ! 
 
 1 curst it present, I regret it past. 
 
 lanthe! you are call'd to cross the sea! 
 
 A path forbidden me ! 
 Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds 
 
 Upon the mountain-heads. 
 How often we have watcht him laying down 
 
 His brow, and dropt own own 
 Against each other's, auid how faint and short 
 
 And sliding the support ! 
 What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest, 
 
 lanthe ! nor will rest 
 But on the very thought that swells with pain. 
 
 O bid me hope again ! 
 O give me back what Earth, what (without you) 
 
 Not Heaven itself can do. 
 One of the golden days that we have past; 
 
 And let it be my last! 
 Or else the gift would be, however sweet, 
 
 Fragile and incomplete. 
 
XXXVII 
 
 The Lover 
 
 Now thou art gone, tho' not gone iax. 
 
 It seems that there are worlds between us; 
 
 Shine here again, thou wandering stau*! 
 Earth's planet ! and return with Venus. 
 
 At times thou broughtest me thy light 
 When restless sleep had gone away; 
 
 At other times more blessed night 
 Stole over, and prolonged thy stay. 
 
 I often ask upon whose arm she leans, 
 
 She whom I dearly love. 
 And if she visit much the crowded scenes 
 
 Where mimic passions move. 
 There, mighty powers ! assert your just controul, 
 
 Alarm her thoughtless breast. 
 Breathe soft suspicion o'er her yielding soul, 
 
 But never break its rest. 
 O let some faithful lover, absent long, 
 
 To sudden bliss return; 
 Then Landor's name shall tremble from her tongue, 
 
 Her cheek thro' tears shall bum. 
 
 Page 
 Eighteen 
 
I sadden while I view again 
 
 Smiles that for me the Graces wreathed. 
 Sure my last kiss those lips retain 
 
 And breathe the very vow they breathed; 
 
 At peace, in sorrow, far or near, 
 
 Constant and fond she still would be. 
 
 And absence should the more endear 
 The sigh it only woke for me. 
 
 Till the slow hours have paist away. 
 Sweet image, bid my bosom rest. 
 
 Vain hope! yet shalt thou night and day, 
 Sweet image, to this heart be prest. 
 
 Pleasure! why thus desert the heart 
 
 In its spring-tide? 
 I could have seen her, I could part. 
 
 And but have sigh'd! 
 
 O'er every youthful chaom to stray. 
 
 To gaze, to touch . . 
 Pleasure! why take so much away, 
 
 Or give so much! 
 
 Page 
 Nineteen 
 
xli 
 
 Here, ever since you went abroad, 
 If there be change, no change I see, 
 
 I only walk our wonted road. 
 The road is only walkt by me. 
 
 Yes ; I forgot ; a change there is ; 
 
 Was it of that you bade me tell? 
 I catch at times, at times I miss 
 
 The sight, the tone, I know so well. 
 
 Only two months since you stood here! 
 
 Two shortest months ! then tell me why 
 Voices are harsher than they were, 
 
 And tears are longer ere they dry. 
 
 xlii 
 
 Along this coast I led the vacant Hours 
 
 To the lone sunshine on the uneven strand, 
 And nipt the stubborn grass and jucier flowers 
 
 With one unconscious inobservant hand, 
 While crept the other by degrees more near 
 
 Until it rose the cherisht form around. 
 And prest it closer, only that the ear 
 
 Might lean, and deeper drink some half-heard 
 sound. 
 
 Page 
 Twenty 
 
 mtim 
 
xlili 
 
 Pursuits ! alas, I now have none, 
 
 But idling where were once pursuits, 
 Often, all morning quite alone, 
 
 I sit upon those twisted roots 
 Which rise above the grass, and shield 
 
 Our harebell, when the churlish year 
 Catches her coming first afield, 
 
 And she looks pale tho' spring is near; 
 I chase the violets, that would hide 
 
 Their little prudish heads away, 
 And argue with the rills, that chide 
 
 When we discover them at play. 
 
 Page 
 Twenty-one 
 
xliv 
 
 As round the parting ray the busy motes 
 
 In eddying circles play'd, 
 Some little bird threw dull and broken notes 
 
 Amid an elder's shade. 
 
 My soul was tranquil as the scene around, 
 
 lanthe at my side; 
 Both leaning silent on the turfy mound, 
 
 Lowly and soft and wide. 
 
 I had not lookt, that evening, for the part 
 
 One hand could disengage. 
 To make her arms cling round me, with a start 
 
 My bosom must assuage: 
 
 Silence and soft inaction please as much 
 
 Sometimes the stiller breast. 
 Which passion now has thrill'd with milder touch 
 
 And love in peace possest. 
 
 "Hark! hear you not the nightingale?" I said, 
 
 To strike her with surprise. 
 "The nightingale?" she cried, and raised her head. 
 
 And beam'd with brighter eyes. 
 
 "Before you said 'twas he that piped above. 
 
 At every thrilling swell 
 He pleas'd me more and more; he sang of love 
 
 So plaintively, so well." 
 
 Where are ye, happy days, when every bird 
 
 Pour'd love in every strain? 
 Ye days, when true was every idle word. 
 
 Return, return again! 
 
 Page 
 
 Tvventy-tw 
 
xlv 
 
 Where alders rise up dark and dense 
 But just behind the wayside fence, 
 A stone there is in yonder nook 
 Which once I borrow'd of the brook: 
 You sate beside me on that stone, 
 Rather (not much) too wide for one. 
 Untoward stone ! and never quite 
 (Tho' often very near it) right. 
 And putting to sore shifts my wit 
 To roll it out, then steady it, 
 And then to prove that it must be 
 Too hard for anyone but me. 
 lanthe, haste! ere June declines 
 We'll write upon it all these lines. 
 
 xlvi 
 
 lanthe' s Letter 
 
 We will not argue, if you say 
 
 My sorrows when I went away 
 Were not for you alone; 
 
 For there were many very dear, 
 
 Altho' at dawn they came not near. 
 As you did, yet who griev'd when I was gone. 
 We will not argue (but why tell 
 
 So false a tale?) that scarcely fell 
 My tesu-s were mostly due. 
 
 I can not think who told you so: 
 
 I shed (about the rest I know 
 Nothing at all) the first and last for you. 
 
 Page 
 Twenty-three 
 
xlvii 
 
 You tell me I must come again 
 
 Now buds and blooms appear: 
 Ah ! never fell one word in vain 
 
 Of yours on mortal ear. 
 You say the birds are busy now 
 
 In hedgerow, brake, and grove, 
 And slant their eyes to find the bough 
 
 That best conceals their love : 
 How many warble from the spray ! 
 
 How many on the wing! 
 "Yet, yet," say you, "one voice away 
 
 I miss the sound of spring." 
 How little could that voice express. 
 
 Beloved, when we met! 
 But other sounds hath tenderness, 
 
 Which neither shall forget. 
 
 xlviii 
 
 Thank Heaven, lanthe, once again 
 
 Our hands and ardent lips shall meet. 
 
 And Pleasure, to assert his reign, 
 
 Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet: 
 
 Then cease repeating while you mourn, 
 
 "I wonder when he will return." 
 
 Ah wherefore should you so admire 
 
 The flowing words that fill my song, 
 
 Why call them artless, yet require 
 
 "Some promise from that tuneful tongue?" 
 
 I doubt if heaven itself could part 
 
 A tuneful tongue and tender heart. 
 
 Page 
 Twenty-four 
 
xlix 
 
 Yes, we shall meet (I knew we should) again, 
 And I am solaced now you tell me when. 
 Joy sprung o'er sorrow as the morning broke, 
 And, as I read the words, I thought you spoke. 
 Altho' you bade it, yet to find how fast 
 My spirits rose, how lightly grief flew past, 
 I blush at every tear I have represt. 
 And one is starting to reprove the rest. 
 
 1 
 
 Soon as lanthe's lip I prest. 
 
 Thither my spirit wing'd its way: 
 
 Ah, there the wanton would not rest! 
 Ah, there the wanderer could not stay ! 
 
 I held her hand, the pledge of bliss. 
 
 Her hand that trembled and withdrew; 
 She bent her head before my kiss . . 
 
 My heart was sure that hers was true. 
 Now I have told her I must part. 
 
 She shakes my hand, she bids adieu. 
 Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart! 
 
 Hers never was the heart for you. 
 
 Silent, you say, I'm grown of late, 
 Nor yield, as you do, to our fate? 
 Ah ! that alone is truly pain 
 Of which we never can complain. 
 
 Page 
 Twenty-five 
 
liii 
 
 No, thou hast never griev'd, but I griev'd too; 
 Smiled thou hast often when no smile of mine 
 Could answer it. The sun himself can give 
 But little colour to the desert sands. 
 
 •liv 
 
 My hopes retire; my wishes as before 
 Struggle to find their resting-place in vain: 
 The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore ; 
 The shore repels it; it returns again. 
 
 Iv 
 
 Mine fall, and yet a tesu- of hers 
 
 Would swell, not soothe their pain, 
 
 Ah ! if she look but at these tears. 
 They do not fall in vain. 
 
 Ivi 
 
 There are some tears we would not wish to dry, 
 
 And some that sting before they drop and die. 
 
 Ah ! well may be imagined of the two 
 
 Which I would ask of Heaven may fall from you. 
 
 Such, ere th lover sinks into the friend. 
 
 On meeting cheeks in warm attraction blend. 
 
Mi 
 
 While you, my love, are by, 
 How fast the moments fly ! 
 
 Yet who could wish them slower? 
 Alas ! to think ere long 
 Your converse and your song 
 
 Can reach my ear no more. 
 
 let the thought too rest 
 Upon your gentle breast. 
 
 Where many kind ones dwell; 
 And then perhaps at least 
 
 1 may partake a feast 
 
 None e'er enjoy'd so well. 
 Why runs in haste away 
 Such music, day by day, 
 
 When every little wave 
 Of its melodious rill 
 Would slake my thirst, until 
 
 I quench it in the grave. 
 
 Iviii 
 Love's Secrets 
 
 Poplar ! I will not write upon thy rind 
 
 lanthe's cherisht name. 
 Which it would grieve me should another find. 
 
 And the same station claim. 
 
 Ours, O lanthe, ours must never meet, 
 
 Tho' here we tarry long. 
 To hear the whisper of the leaves is sweet, 
 
 And that bird's even-song. 
 
 One sweeter I have bidden thee to check 
 
 In fear of passer by. 
 Who might have seen an arm about a neck; 
 
 So timorous am I. 
 
 Page 
 Twenty-seven 
 
Lie, my fond heart at rest, 
 She never can be ours. 
 
 Why strike upon my breast 
 The slowly passing hours? 
 
 Ah! breathe not out the name! 
 
 That fatal folly stay! 
 Conceal the eternal flame. 
 
 And tortured ne'er betray. 
 
 You smiled, you spoke, and I believed. 
 By every word and smile deceived. 
 Another man would hope no more; 
 Nor hope I what I hoped before: 
 But let not this last wish be vain ; 
 Deceive, deceive me once again ! 
 
 Ixi 
 
 I can not tell, not I, why she 
 Awhile so gracious, now should be 
 So grave : I can not tell you why 
 The violet hangs its head awry. 
 It shall be cull'd, it shall be worn, 
 In spite of every sign of scorn. 
 Dark look, and overhanging thorn. 
 
 Ixii 
 
 Ah! could I think there's nought of ill 
 In what you do, and love you still! 
 I have the power for only half. 
 My wish: you know it, and you laugh. 
 
Ixiii 
 
 To Love 
 
 Where is my heart, perfidious boy- 
 Give it, ah give it back again ! 
 
 I ask no more for hours of joy. 
 
 Lift but thy arm and burst my chain. 
 
 "Fond man, the heeu-t we idly gave 
 She prizes not, yet won't restore: 
 
 She passes on from slave to slave. . 
 Go to . . thy heart is thine no more." 
 
 Ixiv 
 
 Little it interests me how 
 Some insolent usurper now 
 
 Divides your narrow chair; 
 Little heed I whose hand is placed 
 (No, nor how far) around your waist, 
 
 Or paddles in your hair. 
 
 A time, a time there may have been 
 
 (Ah! and there was) when every scene 
 
 Was brightened by your eyes. 
 And dare you ask what you have done? 
 My answer, take it, is but one . . 
 
 The weak have taught the wise. 
 
 Ixv 
 
 Bid my bosom cease to grieve, 
 
 Bid these eyes fresh objects see, 
 Where's the comfort to believe 
 
 None would once have rival'd me? 
 What, my freedom to receive? 
 
 Broken hearts, are they the free? 
 For another can I live 
 
 If I may not live for thee? 
 
 Page 
 Twenty-n 
 
Page 
 Thirty 
 
 Ixvi 
 
 So late removed from him she swore, 
 
 With clasping arms and vows and tears, 
 
 In life and death she would adore. 
 
 While memory, fondness, bliss, endears. 
 
 Can she forswear? can she forget? 
 
 Strike, mighty Love! strike, Vengeance! Soft! 
 Conscience must come and bring regret . . 
 
 These let her feel ! . . nor these too oft! 
 
 Ixvii 
 
 fond, but fickle and untrue, 
 lanthe take my last adieu. 
 
 Your heart one day will ask you why 
 You forced from me this farewell sigh. 
 Have you not feign'd that friends reprove 
 The mask of Friendship worn by Love? 
 Feign'd, that they whisper'd you should be 
 The same to others as to me? 
 Ah ! little knew they what they said ! 
 How would they blush to be obey'd! 
 
 Too swiftly roU'd the wheels when last 
 These woods and airy downs we past. 
 Fain would we trace the winding path. 
 And hardly wisht for blissful Bath. 
 At every spring you caught my arm, 
 And every pebble roU'd alarm. 
 On me was turn'd that face divine, 
 The view was on the right so fine: 
 
 1 smiled . . those conscious eyes withdrew. . 
 The left was now the finer view. 
 
 Each trembled for dected wiles. 
 And blushes tinged with fading smiles. 
 But Love turns Terror into jest. . 
 We laught, we kist, and we conf est. 
 Laugh, kisses, confidence are past. 
 And Loves goes too . . but goes the last. 
 
 &^..;.»,ats.gs--;-^^».i8g^«-^ --v— --r^^^^i- -■ ..^fi^^^.^^-^--^-^ 
 
Ixviii 
 
 Tears, and tears only, are these eyes that late 
 
 In thine could contemplate 
 Charms which, like stars, in swift succession rise 
 
 No longer to these eyes ! 
 Love shows the place he flew from; there, bereft 
 
 Of motion. Grief is left. 
 
 Ixix 
 
 Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak 
 Four not exempt from pride some future day. 
 
 Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek 
 Over my open volume you will say, 
 'This man loved me!" then rise and trip away. 
 
 Ixx 
 
 Ask me not, a voice severe 
 
 Tells me, for it gives me pain. 
 
 Peace ! the hour, too sure, is near 
 When I cam not ask again. 
 
 Ixxi 
 
 Heart' s-Ease 
 
 There is a flower I wish to wear. 
 But not until first worn by you . . 
 
 Heart's-ease . . of all earth's flowers most rare; 
 Bring it; and bring enough for two. 
 
 Page 
 Thirty-one 
 
Ixxii 
 
 On the smooth brow and clustering hair 
 Myrtle and rose! your wreath combine, 
 
 The duller olive I would wear, 
 Its constancy, its peace, be mine. 
 
 Ixxiii 
 
 There are some wishes that may start 
 Nor cloud the brow nor sting the heart. 
 Gladly then would I see how smiled 
 One who now fondles with her child; 
 How smiled she but six years ago, 
 Herself a child or nearly so. 
 Yes, let me bring before my sight 
 The silken tresses chain'd up tight. 
 The tiny fingers tipt with red 
 By tossing up the strawberry-bed; 
 Half-open lips, long violet eyes, 
 A little rounder with surprise. 
 And then (her chin against the knee) 
 "Mamma! who can that stranger be? 
 How grave the smile he smiles on me!" 
 
 Ixxiv 
 
 "Do you remember me? or are you proud?" 
 Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, 
 
 lanthe said, and lookt into my eyes. 
 "A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory 
 Where you but once have been must ever be, 
 
 And at your voice Pride from his throne must 
 
Ixxv 
 
 Called Proud 
 
 If I am proud, you surely know, 
 lanthe! who has made me so, 
 And only should condemn the pride 
 That can arise from aught beside. 
 
 Ixxvi 
 To the Countess de Molande 
 
 I wonder not that Youth remains 
 With you, wherever else she flies : 
 
 Where could she find such fair domains. 
 Where bask beneath such sunny eyes? 
 
 Ixxvii 
 
 Years, many psu-ti-colour'd years, 
 
 Some have crept on, and some have flown 
 Since first before me fell those tears 
 
 I never could see fall alone. 
 Years, not so many, are to come, 
 
 Years not so varied, when from you 
 One more will fall : when, csuried home 
 
 I see it not, nor hear adieu. 
 
 Thirty-three 
 
Ixxviii 
 
 Maria! I have said adieu, 
 To one alone so fair as you; 
 And she, beyond my hopes, at last 
 Returns and tells me of the past; 
 While happier for remembering well 
 Am I to hear and she to tell. 
 Whether gay Paris may again 
 Admire you gayest of her train. 
 Or, Love for pilot, you shall go 
 Where Orellana's waters flow, 
 And cull, amid Brazilian bowers. 
 Of richer fruits and gaudier flowers ; 
 Or on the Seine or on the Line 
 Remember one command of mine: 
 Love with as steady love as e'er 
 Illumed the only breast so fair; 
 That, in another year at most, 
 Whether the Alps or sezts are crost, 
 Something may scatter from the flame 
 Fresh lustre o'er Pereira's name. 
 
 Ixxix 
 
 lanthe's Daughter 
 
 To thee, Maria, now within thy tomb, 
 God seem'd to promise many years to come. 
 A gift beyond the rest to Him we owe. 
 He left one image of thee here below. 
 
 Page 
 Thirty-four 
 
Ixxx 
 
 Well I remember how you smiled 
 
 To see me write your name upon 
 The soft sea-sand . . O / what a child! 
 
 You think you' re writing upon stone! 
 I have since written what no tide 
 
 Shall ever wash away, what men 
 Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide 
 
 And find lanthe's name again. 
 
 Ixxxi 
 
 To lanthe 
 
 We once were happier ; true ; but were 
 
 Our happiest hours devoid of care? 
 
 Remains there nothing like the past, 
 
 But calmer and less overcast 
 
 By clouds no effort could dispel. 
 
 And hopes we neither dared to tell? 
 
 I wish that hand were earlier free 
 
 Which Love should have preserved for me. 
 
 Content, if sad, I must be now 
 
 With what the sparing Fates allow, 
 
 And feel, tho* once the hope seem'd vain, 
 
 There may be love that feels no pain. 
 
 Page 
 Thii-ty-fivi 
 
Ixxxii 
 
 A Dreamer's Tale 
 
 Dreamer I ever was by night and day. 
 
 Strange was the dream that on an upland bank 
 
 My horse and I were station'd, and I saw 
 
 By a late gleam of an October sun 
 
 The windows of a house wherein abode 
 
 One whom I loved, who loved me no less — 
 
 And was she not drawn back? and came not forth 
 
 Two manly forms which would impede her steps? 
 
 I was too distant for them to discern 
 
 My features, but they doubted: she retired; 
 
 Was it into her chamber? did she weep? 
 
 I did not know at that hour, but in the next 
 
 Silently flowed tear after tear profuse. 
 
 There are sweet flowers that only blow at night, 
 
 And sweet tears are there bursting then alone. 
 
 I tum'd the bridle back and rode away, 
 Nor saw her more until a lossen'd bond 
 Led her to find me a less happy man 
 Than she had left me, little happy then. 
 For hope had gone with her and not retum'd. 
 She lookt into my eyes, fixt upon hers. 
 And said "You are not cheerful, tho' you say 
 How glad you are to see me here again. 
 Is there a grievance? I have heard there is, 
 And the false heart slips down and breaks the true; 
 I come to catch it first; give it me back; 
 Sweet fruit is no less sweet for being bruis'd." 
 
 Thus at brief intervals she spake and sigh'd ; 
 I sigh'd, too, but spake not: she then pursued, 
 "Tell me, could it be you who came so far 
 Over the sea to catch a glance at one 
 You could not have? Rash creature! to incur 
 Such danger! was it you? I often walkt 
 Lonely and sad along that upland bank, 
 Until the dew fell heavy on my shawl. 
 And calls had reacht me more and more distinct, 
 Ah me ! calls how less willingly obey 'd 
 Than some I well remember not so loud." 
 
Ixxxiii 
 
 No, my own love of other years ! 
 
 No, it must never be. 
 Much rests with you that yet endears, 
 
 Alas! but what with me? 
 Could those bright years o'er me revolve 
 
 So gay, o'er you so fair, 
 The pearl of life we would dissolve 
 
 And each the cup might share. 
 You show that truth can ne'er decay. 
 
 Whatever fate befals; 
 I, that the myrtle and the bay 
 
 Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls. 
 
 Ixxxiv 
 
 To /. S, 
 
 Many may yet recall the hours 
 That saw thy lover's chosen flowers 
 Nodding and dancing in the shade 
 Thy dark and wavy tresses made : 
 On many a brain is pictured yet 
 Thy languid eye's dim violet, 
 But who among them all foresaw 
 How the sad snows that never thaw 
 Upon that head one day should lie 
 And love but glimmer from that eye. 
 
 Ixxxv 
 
 Dull is my verse: not even thou 
 
 Who movest many cares away 
 From this lone breast and weary brow, 
 
 Canst make, as once, its fountain play; 
 No, nor those gentle words that now 
 
 Support my heart to hear thee say: 
 'The bird upon its lonely bough 
 
 Sings sweetest at the close of day." 
 
Ixxxvi 
 To the Comtesse de Molande, about 
 to Marry the Due de Luxembourg 
 
 Say ye that years roll on and ne'er return? 
 Say ye the Sun who leaves them all behind, 
 Their great creator, can not bring one back 
 With all his force, tho' he draw worlds around? 
 Witness me, little streams that meet before 
 My happy dwelling; witness Africo 
 And Mensola! that ye have seen at once 
 Twenty roll back, twenty as swift and bright 
 As are your swiftest and your brightest waves, 
 When the tall cypress o'er the Doccia 
 Hurls from his inmost boughs the latent snow. 
 
 Go, and go happy, light of my past days. 
 Consoler of my present! thou whom Fate 
 Alone could sever from me! One step higher 
 Must yet be mounted, high as was the last: 
 Friendship with faltering accent says "Depart, 
 And take the highest seat below the crown'd." 
 
 Ixxxvii 
 To lanthe in Advancing Age 
 
 The violets of thine eyes are faded, 
 [Surviving] ill their radiant noon. 
 
 Nor will thy steps move on unaided 
 By friendly arm, a\as\ how soon. 
 
 Well I remember whose it was 
 
 They sought; no help they wanted then; 
 Methinks I see the maidens pass 
 
 In envy, and in worse the men. 
 
 Page 
 Thirty-eight 
 
Ixxxviii 
 
 To lanthe Growing Old 
 
 For me you wish you could retain 
 
 The charms of youth ; the wish is vain, 
 
 lanthe ! Let it now suffice 
 
 To pick our way with weaker eyes : 
 
 They cannot light it as of yore 
 
 Where Pleasure's sparkling fount ran o'er. 
 
 Time spares not Beauty, Love he spares. 
 
 Who covers with his wing grey hairs. 
 
 Ixxxix 
 
 On the Death of lanthe 
 
 I dare not trust my pen, it trembles so, 
 It seems to feel a portion of my woe. 
 And makes me credulous that trees and stones 
 At mournful fates have utter'd mournful tones. 
 While I look back again on days long past 
 How gladly would I yours might be my last. 
 Sad our first severance was, but sadder this. 
 When death forbids one hour of mutual bliss. 
 
 Page 
 Thirty-nir 
 
The Death in Paris of Jane Sophia 
 Countess de Molande 
 
 Tears! are they tears indeed? 
 And can the dead heart bleed? 
 Suffering so long, so much, 
 O heart ! I thought no touch 
 Of pain could reach thee more! 
 Alas ! the thought is o'er. 
 I will wipe off the tear 
 That falls not on her bier 
 Who would have wept o'er mine. 
 Ah me ! that form divine 
 Above my reach must rest 
 And make the blest more blest. 
 
 June '51 
 
 Versailles ! Versailles ! thou shalt not keep 
 Her whom this heart yet holds most dear: 
 
 In her own country she shall sleep ; 
 Her epitaph be graven here. 
 
 Mild is the parting yeeu-, and sweet 
 
 The odour of the falling spray; 
 Life passes on more rudely fleet, 
 
 And balmless is its closing day. 
 I wait its close, I court its gloom, 
 
 But mourn that never must there fall 
 Or on my breast or on my tomb 
 
 The tear that would have sooth'd it all. 
 
 I - -[iHiiiifliriiirriiiiiai ij-i uniiriiiiiiittniiiiiiit 
 
Notes 
 
 The variations in spelling are Lander's; for he 
 had his own theories about orthography. See his 
 imaginary conversation between Archdeacon Hare 
 and Landor in Last Fruit off an Old Tree. 
 
 The following are the numbers in this edition of 
 the poems addressed to lanthe published in Gebir, 
 Count Julian, and other Poems, 1831: 
 
 Present edition 
 Ixiii 
 
 1831 
 
 Present edition 
 xxii 
 
 i 
 Ixx 
 
 xxviii 
 
 xix 
 xxii 
 
 1 
 xliv 
 
 vii 
 xxxi 
 
 Ixv 
 xl 
 
 xiv 
 
 xxvi 
 xxvii 
 xxviii 
 
 xxyi 
 
 li 
 Ixvi 
 Ixvii 
 
 ii, iii — The reference is probably to Byron who used the name 
 
 lanthe as a poetical name for Lady Ann Harley. Shelley 
 
 named his daughter lanthe. 
 Ixxviii, Ixxix — Maria, lanthe's daughter, married Chevalier 
 
 Louis de Pereira Sodre, the Brazilian Minister at the Vatican, 
 
 in 1835. She died in 1836. 
 Ixxxvi — See account of lanthe in the Introduction. 
 
 Page 
 Forty-one 
 
Here endeth the Book of lanthe written by 
 Walter Savage Landor and edited by Finley M. K. 
 Foster and printed by The Craftsmen of Kells at 
 their Shop at Newark Delaware on the tenth day 
 of March in the Year of our Lord MDCCCCXXII. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 IIIIHIIi 
 
 014 525 675 6