# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Friendship’s Offering, 1825/The Suicide's Grave

From the review in The Literary Gazette, 6th November 1824, pages 710-712
Friendship's Offering, or the Annual Remembrancer: a Christmas Present, or New Year's Gift, for 1825. L. Relfe.
The Suicide's Grave.
Look on this mound; the newly-turn'd-up earth
Has two or three green patches of wild flowers,
Pale in their slighted beauty; one white group
Of daisies, that, like the sweet gifts of hope,
Spring every where: methinks, it were a spot
Whereon the traveller would love to pause,
And the tir'd peasant rest him from his toil,—
So cool the ashen tree spreads its green cloud,
So beautiful the lanes that from it wind,
So rich the sweep of meadows it commands.
But no! all shun the place; some in vague fear,
And some in pity, some in pious awe:
It is the Suicide's unholy grave:
The one who sleeps here, had no humble prayer
Breath'd o'er the clay it hallow'd by its faith;—
Even in death, shunn'd by his fellow men!
 In the small village which that first green lane
Leads to, in serpentines of sun and shade,
By hedges, fill'd with may and violets,
And scarlet strawberries and honey-suckle,
An old man dwelt; he had an only son,
The child, of his old age. Himself had led
A life of toil upon the ocean wave,
And came at length to spend his latter days,
In peace and quiet, ‘neath the straw-thatch'd roof
Which saw his birth.
A few brief words may tell
How pass’d the early childhood of that boy,
In innocence, in health, and happiness:
But time brings many changes, and he went
To seek his fortune in the crowded city.
It was a sabbath evening when he left
His native village, and the ringing bells
Were pealing cheerfully, and the red light
Made mirrors of the cottage lattices.
When they had reach'd the green lane, which shut out The hamlet from their view, the old man paus'd,
And bade the youth look back. "Just such a day
It was when I return'd again to my own home;
May your heart be as light when you come back
As mine was then."
 They parted, and the boy
Went on, with hurried steps, as if to leave
His thoughts and tears behind. But once he paused
Before a brake in the thick hedge's screen;
There lay the meadows, with their fragrant hay,
Breathing of June; the small white cottages,
The garden filled with fruit trees, the clear stream,
The willows crowding on its further bank;
The church, whose window like a rainbow shone;
And there he saw his father, saw him turn
Towards the burying ground, and tears, which fill'd
His heart, gush'd forth like rain. Why must we lose The sweet warm feelings of our earlier time?
The world is as the sea, in whose salt waves,
Like streams, we lose the freshness of our youth.
 Long years have pass'd,
Yet look from that green lane, and mark how slight
The change that time has made; the same clear stream
Darkens beneath the willow, the red sun
Lights the same colours in the window pane;
And there the cottage, where the old man dwelt
Looking the same, though he dwells there no more.
Alas! how much the change that marks the course
Of time, is only in man's heart and works!
There is such change in cities; towers arise,
And halls and palaces, and the next day
Some other vanity fills up the scene.
But in the quiet valleys, where the hind
Lives in the cottage, follows at the plough,
Which were his father's, time will scarcely leave
A vestige of his flight. Yet, even here
One saddest change has been; that aged man,
Propping his feeble steps by the white rail
Before the workhouse, he is old and blind,
And the rail is at once support and guide.
His eyes have lost their sight with many tears:
The child he loved, led step by step to guilt,
Had been an outcast from his native land,
For seven long years. One morning he had crept
By his accustomed path, rejoic’d to feel
The warmth of summer light upon his brow,
And near his side pass’d a pale haggard man,
Who turn'd to gaze upon him: 'twas his child!
My Father! groan'd the wanderer, and hid
His ghastly face within his hands; the voice
Pierced to the old man's heart—he knew his son—
He trembled, and the wretched one sprang forth
And caught him in his arms,—but he was dead!
Next day, a corpse was seen upon the river:
They took the body, but they did not dare
To lay the guilty where the innocent
Sleep their last holy slumber: it was laid
In common earth, where careless feet might tread;—
It is this mound.