Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon in Friendship’s Offering, 1827/The Lyrist
Typed out from Landon - Poems from Annuals by F. J. Sypher
THE LYRIST
The laurel-wreath is round thine hair,
Maid of the brow divine;
Immortal as the stars, how proud
A destiny is thine!
Thy thoughts are burning on thy cheek,
And to thine eye is given
The glory of that inward light
Which is direct from heaven.
Sweep, maiden, sweep thy glorious lyre,
And let its chords express
All that they dream,—of lofty deed,
And meekest tenderness.
’Tis noon: the Summer loveliness
Should speak unto my heart,—
The maiden bowed her laurelled head,
“In such I have no part;”
A while ago you might have said,
Joy in the sunlight hour;
As flowers, my feelings would have sprung,
Beneath such genial power.
But when those flowers have been checked,
By cold North wind and rain,
Oh, never more will they expand,
In light and bloom, again!
The poet’s is a doomed lot,
And heavy to be borne;—
When one half of his fame is won,
From mockery and scorn.
If right I read the poet’s mind,
’Tis delicate as wild,
Lovely, unreal, sensitive,
And simple as a child;
’Tis as a lute, which a light touch
Into sweet music wakes,
But whose fine chords are slight as fine;—
’Neath the rough hand, it breaks.
Or, if its native strength resists,
It catches the rude tone,
And, harsh and tuneless, loses all
The sweetness—once its own.
Aye, fame is glorious, while, starlike,
It shines in its far birth;
But, like that star, its glory fades,
When once it touches earth.
Oh! woe that e’er I sought to win
A poet’s gifted name!
What ever had my woman’s heart
To do with aught like fame?
My laurel—’tis not at my will,
Or I would fling it down,
And weep, that ever brow of mine
Had won such fatal crown!
It does not fade; ’tis but the lot
Of every birth that springs
From our sad earth, her fair, her sweet;—
These are her fleeting things.
But deadly is the laurel; hence,
Freshly, its green wreath weaves;
It is immortal, for the sake
Of poison in its leaves.
When other trees put forth their bloom,
The laurel stands alone;
Little avail the changeless leaves;
And flowers,—it has none.
The plate for this is from W. Haines as artist and J. W. Cooke as engraver. It is not currently visible on the internet. A contemporary review in Belle Assemblée states:
6. The Lyrist, engraved by J.W. Cook (sic), from a picture by W. Haines, is, on the contrary, very firm, bold and spirited, as well in the engraving as in the design: the former, however, is somewhat deficient in mellowness and tone.