Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon in Friendship’s Offering, 1827/Spirit
From a review in The Literary Gazette, 25th November 1826, page 741
"The Spirit and the Angel of Death. By L. E. L.
"Spirit. I have been over the joyous earth,
When the blushing morning gave daylight birth:
The boughs and grass were sown with pearls,
As an Eastern queen had unbound her curls,
And showered their treasures o'er leaf and flower;
And then I saw how the noontide hour
Kiss'd them away, as if the sun
Touched all with joy that it shone upon.
I saw a crimson rose, like an urn
Wherein a thousand odours burn;
It grew in the shade, but the place was bright
With the glory and glow of its fragrant light.
Then a young lover came beside its dwelling,
To a maiden his gentle love-tale telling;
He pluck'd a rose from out of the shade,—
'Twas not bright as the cheek on which it was laid:
The tale was told in the sunny noon,
Yet the same was heard by the rising moon.
I have been where the azure violet dwells;
I have sung the sweet peal of the lily bells;
I have past on a diamond lake,
Where white swans summer pleasaunce take;
I saw the sun sink down in the sea,—
Blushes and bridal seemed there to be.
Next, over a noble city I swept,—
Calm, in the moonlight, its proud towers slept,
And its stately columns arose on the air
As cut from snow mountains—they were so fair.
Enter’d I next a stately hall;
The young and the gay were at festival:
The cheek of rose flush'd a redder dye;
Flash'd the wild light from the full dark eye;
Laugh'd the sweet lip with a sunny glance,
As the beauty went through the graceful dance.
And I saw the rich wine from the goblet spring,
Like the sudden flash of a spirit's wing.
Thence I went in the twilight dim,
I heard a convent's vesper hymn:
Beautiful were the vestal train
That dwelt at peace in their holy fane.
Paused I in air, to hear a song
Which rather might to heaven belong;
The very winds for delight were mute,—
And I know 'twas the poet's gifted lute.
Then came a sound of the trumpet afar,—
The nations were gathering together in war,
Like a cloud in the sunset; the banner was spread;
Victory had dyed it of meteor red;
Floating scarfs shew'd their broider'd fold.
White foam dash'd the bridles of gold:
Gallant it was the sight to see
Of the young and noble chivalrie.
In sooth, this earth is a lovely place;
Pass not in darkness over her face;
Yet call back thy words of doom—
They are too gay and too fair for the tomb.
Angel of Death. Thou hast seen on earth, as a passer by,
But the outward show of mortality:
Go, let the veil from thine eyes depart;
Search the secrets of every heart;
Look beyond what they seem to be;
Then come and say, are they not ripe for me.
Spirit. I have been over the green earth again;
I have heard the voice of sorrow and pain;
I saw a shining almond-tree fling
Its silver wreath, like a gift, to Spring:
A cold breath came from the northern air;
The leaves were scattered, the boughs were bare.
I saw a ship launched on the sea,—
Queen of the waters she seem'd to be;
An hundred voices benizon gave,
As she cut her path through the frothing wave,
'Twas midnight—she anchored before a town,
Over which the sun had gone lingering down,
As loath to set over what was so fair.
Now the smiling moon rode on the air,
Over towers and turrets, sailing in light,
And gardens, that seem'd to rejoice in night;
When the pealing thunder roll'd on the main,
And the town was awaked by the fairy rain,
And the cry of battle, for blood and flame
Follow'd wherever that war-ship came.
I heard, on the night-wind borne along,
Sweet as before, that gifted song.
But look'd I now on the minstrel's thought—
There many an inward sorrow wrought,
Work of wasting; pining for fame,
Yet loathing the gift of an empty name;
Hope, whose promise was little worth,
And Genius, tainted with cares of earth.
I have watch'd the young, there are thorns with their bloom;
The gay, but their inward heart was gloom;
I have seen the snake steal amid flowers;
Showers that came down on April hours;
And have seen—alas! 'tis but outward show—
The sunshine of yon green earth below:
Glad of rest must the wretched and way-worn be—
Angel of Death, they are ready for thee!"