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# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1832

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Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1832
compiled from other sources by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Dead Robin
* The Evening Prayer
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1832/The Dead Robin

​This poem was published again later in Traits and Trial of Early Life, 1836 pp145-146. However, as there are minor variations, the text below is transcribed from F. J. Sypher’s Poems from the Annuals. This poem should have an accompanying plate, "The Dead Robin", painted by H. Thomson, R.A. and engraved by W. Greatbach.
THE DEAD ROBIN.
IT is dead—it is dead—it will wake no more With the earliest light, as it waked before— And singing, as if it were glad to wake, And wanted our longer sleep to break; We found it a little unfledged thing, With no plume to smooth and no voice to sing; The father and mother both were gone, And the callow nursling left alone!
For a wind, as fierce as those from the sea, Had broken the boughs of the apple tree: The scattered leaves lay thick on the ground, And among them the nest and the bird we found. We warmed it, and fed it, and made it a nest Of Indian cotton, and watched its rest; Its feathers grew soft, and its wings grew strong, And happy it seemed as the day was long.
Do you remember its large dark eye— How it brightened, when one of us came nigh? How it would stretch its throat and sing, And beat the osier cage with its wing— Till we let it forth?—and it perched on our hand— It needed not hood nor silken band, Like the falcons we read of in days gone by, Linked to the wrist, lest away they should fly.
But our bird knew not of the free blue air, He had lived in his cage, and his home was there: No flight had he in the green wood flown— He pined not for freedom he never had known! If he had lived amid leaf and bough It had been cruel to fetter him now; For I have seen a poor bird die, And all for love of his native sky.
But our's would come to our cup and sip, And peck the sugar away from our lip— Would sit on our shoulder and sing, then creep And nestle in our hands to sleep. There is the water, and there is its seed, Its cage hung round with the green chickweed; But the food is untouched, the song is unheard— Cold and stiff lies our beautiful bird!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Sir Thomas Lawrence

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
Thy hand is cold!—thy colors weave
 Their graceful lines no more!
Yet, painter of each lovely face
 That lit our island shore,
These faces from the canvass shine,
And haunt us still with thee and thine.
Hero and beauty—all who ﬂung
 Their spell around their day—
Owe to thy pencil memories
 That will not pass away;
The past—the present seems to be,
Thanks to thy art and thee!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Walter Scott

From The Star, 27th January 1838, page 99
LINES ON WALTER SCOTT. BY MISS LANDON.
Now honour to the glorious head
Numbered with the immortal dead,
 Yet leaving life behind,
Creations to whose charmed powers
We owe so many happy hours—
 The treasures of the mind.
White be the marble for his grave,
And o'er it let the laurel wave,
 Till time itself depart.
But marble white, and laurel tree.
For memory, what needeth he
 Whose shrine is in our heart!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Retzsch

"Retzsch.
"Close it not yet—that graceful page,
 That page of many fancies,
Which realise to common eyes
 The mind-create romances.
Here is the history of the Bell—
 A history containing
Our actual world of hopes and fears,
 Rejoicing and complaining.
Thanks, charmed art, that thus can catch
 The poets’ wildest measure;
And to the music of their page
 Can add another pleasure.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Schiller

The English Bijou Almanack, 1836
All the poems for 1836 are taken from the Literary Gazette, 26th December 1835, page 831
Poems from the "English Bijou Almanack, for 1836." By L. E. L. "Schiller.
"Oh, many are the lovely shapes That glide along thy lovelier line,
And glorious is the breathing life
That warms that burning page of thine.
But never yet a form more fair
Amid the poet's visions moved,
Than Thekla, thy sweet fancy's child,
The German maid who 'lived and loved.'
For her sad sake shall woman's tears
Bedew thy low sepulchral cell,
And say—thrice blessed be the sleep
Of him who knew our hearts so well.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/The Duchess of Kent

The English Bijou Almanack, 1839
All the poems from this publication were reproduced in The New Yorker, 23rd February 1839, following its obituary tribute to L. E. L. (Mrs. Maclean). Page 358
THE DUCHESS OF KENT.
A widow with an only child,
 The mother of our queen;
A stranger in a foreign land,
 Thy lot has various been.
How many claims attend with thee
Upon a nations sympathy!
How many anxious watching hours
 Thy Mother's heart has known,
Before the blossom was a ﬂower—  The orphan on a throne!
Ah! may a glorious future wait On thee—thy child—and England's fate!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/To L. E. L.

From The Literary Gazette review, 23rd December, 1837, page 815.
"To L. E. L. "By John A. Heraud, Esq. Author of 'The Judgment of the Flood,' &c.
"Sappho of a polished age!
 Loves and graces sweetly fling
Chastened spendours o'er thy page,
 Like moonlight on a fairy's wing.
Feelings fresh as morning's dews,
 Breathings gentle as the May's,
Verses soft as violet's hues,  Once sported in thy happy lays.
Sad is now thy plaintive strain,  Melancholy is thy mood— Bring us back thy youth again!  For Cheerfulness befits the good. Yet, if thou be sad—'tis well!  If we weep,—'tis not in vain!
Sighs, attuned to Sappho's shell,
 Allure us into love with pain!"
# Poems of Cheer/As you go through Life

Don't look for the flaws as you go through life;  And even when you find them, It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind,  And look for the virtue behind them; For the cloudiest night has a hint of light  Somewhere in its shadows hiding; It's better by far to hunt for a star,  Than the spots on the sun abiding.
The current of life runs ever away  To the bosom of God's great ocean. Don't set your force 'gainst the river's course,  And think to alter its motion. Don't waste a curse on the universe,  Remember, it lived before you; Don't butt at the storm with your puny form,  But bend and let it go o'er you.
The world will never adjust itself  To suit your whims to the letter, Some things must go wrong your whole life long,  And the sooner you know it the better. It is folly to fight with the Infinite,  And go under at last in the wrestle. The wiser man shapes into God's plan,  As water shapes into a vessel.
# Poems of Cheer/Bound and free

Come to me, Love! Come on the wings of the wind!  Fly as the ring-dove would fly to his mate! Leave all your cares and your sorrows behind!  Leave all the fears of your future to Fate! Come! and our skies shall be glad with the gold  That paled into gray when you parted from me. Come! but remember that, just as of old,  You must be bound, Love, and I must be free.
Life has lost savour since you and I parted;  I have been lonely, and you have been sad. Youth is too brief to be sorrowful-hearted -  Come! and again let us laugh and be glad. Lips should not sigh that are fashioned to kiss -  Breasts should not ache that joy's secrets have found. Come! but remember, in spite of all this,  I must be free, Love, while you must be bound.
You must be bound to be true while you live,  And I keep my freedom for ever, as now. You must ask only for that which I give -  Kisses and love-words, but never a vow. Come! I am lonely, and long for your smile,  Bring back the lost lovely Summer to me! Come! but remember, remember the while,  That you must be bound, Love, and I must be free.
# Poems of Cheer/All mad

"He is mad as a hare, poor fellow,  And should be in chains," you say. I haven't a doubt of your statement,  But who isn't mad, I pray? Why, the world is a great asylum,  And people are all insane, Gone daft with pleasure or folly,  Or crazed with passion and pain.
The infant who shrieks at a shadow,  The child with his Santa Claus faith, The woman who worships Dame Fashion,  Each man with his notions of death, The miser who hoards up his earnings,  The spendthrift who wastes them too soon, The scholar grown blind in his delving,  The lover who stares at the moon.
The poet who thinks life a paean,  The cynic who thinks it a fraud, The youth who goes seeking for pleasure,  The preacher who dares talk of God, All priests with their creeds and their croaking,  All doubters who dare to deny, The gay who find aught to wake laughter,  The sad who find aught worth a sigh, Whoever is downcast or solemn,  Whoever is gleeful and glad, Are only the dupes of delusions -  We are all of us--all of us mad.
# Poems of Cheer/And they are dumb

I have been across the bridges of the years.  Wet with tears Were the ties on which I trod, going back  Down the track To the valley where I left, 'neath skies of Truth,  My lost youth.
As I went, I dropped my burdens, one and all -  Let them fall; All my sorrows, all my wrinkles, all my care,  My white hair, I laid down, like some lone pilgrim's heavy pack,  By the track.
As I neared the happy valley with light feet,  My heart beat To the rhythm of a song I used to know  Long ago, And my spirits gushed and bubbled like a fountain  Down a mountain.
On the border of that valley I found you,  Tried and true; And we wandered through the golden Summer-Land  Hand in hand. And my pulses beat with rapture in the blisses  Of your kisses.
And we met there, in those green and verdant places,  Smiling faces, And sweet laughter echoed upward from the dells  Like gold bells. And the world was spilling over with the glory  Of Youth's story.
It was but a dreamer's journey of the brain;  And again I have left the happy valley far behind;  And I find Time stands waiting with his burdens in a pack  For my back.
As he speeds me, like a rough, well-meaning friend,  To the end, Will I find again the lost ones loved so well?  Who can tell! But the dead know what the life will be to come -  And they are dumb!
# Poems of Cheer/Aquileia

[On the election of the Roman Emperor Maximus, by the Senate, A.D. 238, a powerful army, headed by the Thracian giant Maximus, laid siege to Aquileia. Though poorly prepared for war, the constancy of her citizens rendered her impregnable. The women of Aquileia cut off their hair to make ropes for the military engines. The small body of troops was directed by Chrispinus, a Lieutenant of the Senate. Apollo was the deity supposed to protect them. --Gibbon's Roman History.]
"The ropes, the ropes! Apollo send us ropes," Chrispinus cried, "or death attends our hopes." Then panic reigned, and many a mournful sound Hurt the cleft air; for where could ropes be found?
Up rose a Roman mother; tall was she As her own son, a youth of noble height. A little child was clinging to her knee - She loosed his twining arms and put him down, And her dark eyes flashed with a sudden light.
How like a queen she stood! her royal crown, The rich dark masses of her splendid hair. Just flecked with spots of sunshine here and there, Twined round her brow; 'twas like a coronet, Where gems of gold lie bedded deep in jet.
She loosed the comb that held the shining strands, And threaded out the meshes with her hands. The purple mass fell to her garment's hem. A queen new clothed without her diadem She stood before her subjects.
 "Now," she cried, "Give me thy sword, Julianus!" And her son Unsheathed the blade (that had not left his side Save when it sought a foeman's blood to shed), Awed by her regal bearing, and obeyed.
With the white beauty of her firm fair hand She clasped the hilt; then severed, one by one, Her gold-flecked purple tresses. Strand on strand, Free e'en as foes had fallen by that blade, Robbed of its massive wealth of curl and coil, Yet like some antique model, rose her head In all its classic beauty.
 "See!" she said, And pointed to the shining mound of hair; "Apollo makes swift answer to thy prayer, Chrispinus. Quick! now, soldiers, to thy toil!" Forth from a thousand throats what seemed one voice Rose shrilly, filling all the air with cheer. "Lo!" quoth the foe, "our enemies rejoice!" Well might the Thracian giant quake with fear! For while skilled hands caught up the gleaming threads And bound them into cords, a hundred heads Yielded their beauteous tresses to the sword, And cast them down to swell the precious hoard.
Nor was the noble sacrifice in vain Another day beheld the giant slain.
# Poems of Cheer/All for me

The world grows green on a thousand hills -  By a thousand willows the bees are humming, And a million birds by a million rills,  Sing of the golden season coming. But, gazing out on the sun-kist lea,  And hearing a thrush and a blue-bird singing, I feel that the summer is all for me,  And all for me are the joys it is bringing.
All for me the bumble-bee  Drones his song in the perfect weather; And, just on purpose to sing to me,  Thrush and blue-bird came North together. Just for me, in red and white,  Bloom and blossom the fields of clover; And all for me and my delight  The wild Wind follows and plays the lover.
The mighty sun, with a scorching kiss  (I have read, and heard, and do not doubt it) Has burned up a thousand worlds like this,  And never stopped to think about it. And yet I believe he hurries up  Just on purpose to kiss my flowers - To drink the dew from the lily-cup,  And help it to grow through golden hours.
I know I am only a speck of dust,  An individual mite of masses, Clinging upon the outer crust  Of a little ball of cooling gases. And yet, and yet, say what you will,  And laugh, if you please, at my lack of reason, For me wholly, and for me still,  Blooms and blossoms the Summer season.
Nobody else has ever heard  The story the Wind to me discloses; And none but I and the humming-bird  Can read the hearts of the crimson roses. Ah, my Summer--my love--my own!  The world grows glad in your smiling weather; Yet all for me, and me alone,  You and your Court came North together.
# Poems of Cheer/An Afternoon

I am stirred by the dream of an afternoon Of a perfect day--though it was not June; The lilt of winds, and the droning tune  That a busy city was humming.
And a bronze-brown head, and lips like wine Leaning out through the window-vine A-list for steps that were maybe mine -  Eager steps that were coming.
I can see it all, as a dreamer may - The tender smile on your lips that day, And the glow on your cheek as we rode away  Into the golden weather.
And a love-light shone in your eyes of brown - I swear there did!--as we drove down The crowded avenue out of the town,  Through shadowy lanes, together:
Drove out into the sunset-skies That glowed with wonderful crimson dyes; And with soul and spirit, and heart and eyes,  We silently drank their splendour.
But the golden glory that lit the place Was not alone from the sunset's grace - For I saw in your fair, uplifted face  A light that was wondrously tender.
I say I saw it. And yet to-day I ask myself, in a cynical way, Was it only a part you had learned to play,  To see me act the lover?
And I curse myself for a fool. And yet I would willingly die without one regret Could I bring back the day whose sun has set -  And you--and live it over.
# Poems of Cheer/Burdened

"Genius, a man's weapon, a woman's burden." - Lamartine.
Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life  Than to be burdened so that you can not  Sit down contented with the common lot Of happy mother and devoted wife.
To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife  With all the sea's commotion; to be fraught  With fires and frenzies which you have not sought, And weighed down with the wild world's weary strife;
To feel a fever always in your breast;  To lean and hear, half in affright, half shame,  A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name; To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest,  And know, however great your meed of fame, You are but a weak woman at the best.
# Poems of Cheer/By-and-bye

"By-and-bye," the maiden sighed--"by-and-bye He will claim me for his bride, Hope is strong and time is fleet; Youth is fair, and love is sweet, Clouds will pass that fleck my sky, He will come back by-and-bye--by-and-bye."
"By-and-bye," the soldier said--"by-and-bye, After I have fought and bled, I shall go home from the wars, Crowned with glory, seamed with scars. Joy will flash from some one's eye When she greets me by-and-bye--by-and-bye."
"By-and-bye," the mother cried--"by-and-bye, Strong and sturdy at my side, Like a staff supporting me, Will my bonnie baby be. Break my rest, then, wail and cry - Thou'lt repay me by-and-bye--by-and-bye."
Fleeting years of time have sped--hurried by - Still the maiden is unwed: All unknown the soldier lies, Buried under alien skies; And the son, with blood-shot eye, Saw his mother starve and die. God in Heaven! dost Thou on high, Keep the promised "by-and-bye"--by-and-bye?
# Poems of Cheer/Artist's life

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,  Mad with melody, rhythm--rife From the very first to the final note.  Give me his "Artist's Life!"
It stirs my blood to my finger-ends,  Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest, And all that is sweetest and saddest blends  Together within my breast.
It brings back that night in the dim arcade,  In love's sweet morning and life's best prime, When the great brass orchestra played and played,  And set our thoughts to rhyme.
It brings back that Winter of mad delights,  Of leaping pulses and tripping feet, And those languid moon-washed Summer nights  When we heard the band in the street.
It brings back rapture and glee and glow,  It brings back passion and pain and strife, And so of all the waltzes I know,  Give me the "Artist's Life."
For it is so full of the dear old time -  So full of the dear old friends I knew. And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme,  I am always finding - You.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To a Butterfly

TO A BUTTERFLY.
Little fluttering beauteous fly, With azure wing of softest dye, Hither fairy wanton hie, Nor fear to lose thy liberty: For I would view, thou silly thing, The colours of thy velvet wing. Its lovely melting tints outvie The glories of the summer sky. Can pencil imitate the hue, So soft, so delicate a blue? Well I know thy life is short, One transient hour of idle sport: Enjoy that little halcyon hour, And kiss each fair and fragrant flower; No more I'll stay thy mazy flight, For short thy moments of delight.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To my Aunt, On her Birthday

TO MY AUNT, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
The muse shall breathe a native lay, And sweetly consecrate the day; While Anna by the power of truth Leads on our emulative youth; While each young virtue of the heart, To her a rapture can impart. The genuine thoughts her soul may prize, Endear'd by fond affection's ties; Warm from the bosom's ardent glow, The wild effusions gaily flow. "The muse shall breathe a native lay, "And sweetly consecrate the day:"
While love and friendship's pure delight, To bless our little band unite.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To Hope

TO HOPE.
Fair enchantress gaily kind,  Sweet the dream inspir'd by thee; Ever bless thy poet's mind  With thy heavenly energy! Thine, oh! Hope, the magic art, To charm the sorrows of the heart; To chase the fond, the plaintive sigh, With visions of felicity!
Ah! when real joys are o'er, And love and peace delight no more, Then thy melting syren-voice Bids the pensive mind rejoice. Ah! thy dreams are too beguiling; Ah! thy prospect is too smiling. Welcome still thy dear illusions; Ever sweet thy wild effusions; "Fair enchantress, gaily kind, Ever bless thy poet's mind!" Thine th' inspiring song of peace, Soon the plaint of woe shall cease; Soon again a brighter guest Calm the mourning soul to rest. Roses in thy path shall bloom; Think, oh! think of joys to come! Come Hope, and all my steps attend, Oh! ever be my bosom-friend; To me thy fairest dreams impart, And whisper comfort to my heart. Oh! shed thy sweet enchanting ray, To bless my wild romantic way. In thy magic scene we view Gay delusions, seeming true. "Sweet musician, gaily kind, Ever bless thy poet's mind!”
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To Patriotism

TO PATRIOTISM.
Genius of Britannia's land, Hither lead thy chosen band: Honour with the laurel crown, Valour, panting for renown; Enterprize, who waves on high The British flag of victory; And Fortitude, with awful state, Who soars above the storm of fate.
Oh! by the spirits of the brave, The heroes of Trafalgar's wave; And by our Nelson's sacred name, And by our Abercromby's fame, Do thou Britannia's sons inspire With all thy energy and fire: Teach them to conquer or to die With firm unshaken loyalty. Then may some bard record their praise In sweet enthusiastic lays; And hail the patriotic band, The guardians of their native land; Whose names shall live in warlike story, Consigned to everlasting glory.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To my Younger Brother on his Entering the Army

TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,
ON HIS ENTERING THE ARMY.
Hail! thou dear thou gallant boy, Oh! be our hero, be our joy; May "love and glory" fire thy soul, Inspir'd by virtue's pure controul; And then our hearts with joy sincere, Would bless our noble fuzileer.
Tho' we are now resign'd to grief, It may be thine to bring relief; Oh! let us see thy patriot name Recorded in the lists of fame; And then our hearts with joy sincere, Will bless our noble fuzileer.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To Independence

TO INDEPENDENCE.
Hail! Independence, source of blessings, hail!  Nurse of the towering thought, the gallant deed; When blest by thee how sweet the simple vale,  How charms with thee the brook, th' enamell'd mead! And when the lark, the messenger of day,  Proclaims the roseate morn will soon appear; With thee what melody inspires the lay,  How soft the carol, how distinct, how clear. With thee how doubly fair by Cynthia's beam,  The starry lamps resplendent in the sky: How gently flows the chrystal purling stream,  How radiant Phœbus meets the dazzled eye. With thee how jocund fleets th' ecstatic hour,  How shine the lucid drops which bend the flower; How gay the sylvan scene, whene'er we rove,  Wandering with thee, and with the maid we love.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To My Brother

TO MY BROTHER.
Muse of friendship wake the lyre, Strike it with unwonted fire; Now my brother asks the lay, The pleasing tribute let me pay. Let the measure softly flow, To give him all the thanks I owe; To wish him all my heart would say, All that's happy, all that's gay. Cherub health with beaming eye, Well-deserv'd prosperity, Joy and honour, fortune, fame, All that merit e'er can claim; Inward peace with placid mien, And domestic joy serene. May Heaven propitious deign to hear, This a sister's genuine prayer.