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# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1831/The Violet

THE VIOLET.
Why better than the lady rose
 Love I this little flower?
Because its fragrant leaves are those
 I loved in childhood's hour.
Tho' many a flower may win my praise,
 The violet has my love;
I did not pass my childish days
 In garden or in grove:
My garden was the window-seat,
 Upon whose edge was set
A little vase,—the fair, the sweet,—
 It was the violet.
It was my pleasure and my pride;—
 How I did watch its growth!
For health and bloom, what plans I tried,
 And often injured both.
I placed it in the summer shower,
 I placed it in the sun;
And ever, at the evening hour,
 My work seemed half undone.
The broad leaves spread, the small buds grew,
 How slow they seemed to be;
At last there came a tinge of blue,—
 ’T was worth the world to me!
At length the perfume filled the room,
 Shed from their purple wreath;
No flower has now so rich a bloom,
 Has now so sweet a breath.
I gathered two or three,—they seemed
 Such rich gifts to bestow;
So precious in my sight, I deemed
 That all must think them so.
Ah! who is there but would be fain
 To be a child once more;
If future years could bring again
 All that they brought before.
My heart's world has been long o'erthrown,
 It is no more of flowers;
Their bloom is past, their breath is flown,
 Yet I recal those hours.
Let nature spread her loveliest,
 By spring or summer nurst;
Yet still I love the violet best,
 Because I loved it first. L. E. L.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1835

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1835
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* Henri IV. to the Fair Gabrielle
* The Billet-Doux
* The Grecian Garden
* Venice
# Poems (Denver)/The Sword of Wallace

THE SWORD OF WALLACE.
["Among the relics and curiosities preserved in Rinfauns Castle, Perthshire, the seat of Lord Grey, is a sword, said to have belonged to Sir William Wallace. Rinfauns was at one time the property of Sir Adam de Longueville, the friend of Wallace; and the tradition, or history of the family is that the Scottish Patriot, about 1300, presented the weapon to his friend, by whom it was carefully cherished, and bequeathed to his successor."]
# Poems of Passion/Ad Finem

On the white throat of the' useless passion That scorched my soul with its burning breath I clutched my fingers in murderous fashion, And gathered them close in a grip of death; For why should I fan, or feed with fuel, A love that showed me but blank despair? So my hold was firm, and my grasp was cruel— I meant to strangle it then and there!
I thought it was dead. But with no warning, It rose from its grave last night, and came And stood by my bed till the early morning, And over and over it spoke your name. Its throat was red where my hands had held it; It burned my brow with its scorching breath; And I said, the moment my eyes beheld it, "A love like this can know no death."
For just one kiss that your lips have given In the lost and beautiful past to me I would gladly barter my hopes of Heaven And all the bliss of Eternity. For never a joy are the angels keeping, To lay at my feet in Paradise, Like that of into your strong arms creeping, And looking into your love-lit eyes.
I know, in the way that sins are reckoned, This thought is a sin of the deepest dye; But I know, too, if an angel beckoned, Standing close by the Throne on High, And you, adown by the gates infernal, Should open your loving arms and smile, I would turn my back on things supernal, To lie on your breast a little while.
To know for an hour you were mine completely— Mine in body and soul, my own— I would bear unending tortures sweetly, With not a murmur and not a moan. A lighter sin or a lesser error Might change through hope or fear divine; But there is no fear, and hell has no terror, To change or alter a love like mine.
# Poems of Passion/An Answer

If all the year was summer time, And all the aim of life Was just to lilt on like a rhyme, Then I would be your wife.
If all the days were August days, And crowned with golden weather, How happy then through green-clad ways We two could stray together!
If all the nights were moonlit nights, And we had naught to do But just to sit and plan delights, Then I would wed with you.
If life was all a summer fete, Its soberest pace the "glide," Then I would choose you for my mate, And keep you at my side.
But winter makes full half the year, And labor half of life, And all the laughter and good cheer Give place to wearing strife.
Days will grow cold, and moons wax old. And then a heart that's true Is better far than grace or gold— And so, my love, adieu! I cannot wed with you.
# Poems of Passion/A Sculptor

As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts  Chisel and hammer to the block at hand,  Before my half-formed character I stand And ply the shining tools of mental gifts. I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side  Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace  The angles of ill-temper.
 And no trace Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.  Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,  And the sharp corners of my discontent Be rounded into symmetry, and lent Great harmony by faith that never tires.  Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,  Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."
# Poems of Passion/As by Fire

Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearning For spiritual perfection here below, This vigorous frame, with healthful fervor burning, Seems my determined foe,
So actively it makes a stern resistance, So cruelly sometimes it wages war Against a wholly spiritual existence Which I am striving for.
It interrupts my soul's intense devotions; Some hope it strangles, of divinest birth, With a swift rush of violent emotions Which link me to the earth.
It is as if two mortal foes contended Within my bosom in a deadly strife, One for the loftier aims for souls intended, One for the earthly life.
And yet I know this very war within me, Which brings out all my will-power and control, This very conflict at the last shall win me The loved and longed-for goal.
The very fire which seems sometimes so cruel Is the white light that shows me my own strength. A furnace, fed by the divinest fuel, It may become at length.
Ah! when in the immortal ranks enlisted, I sometimes wonder if we shall not find That not by deeds, but by what we've resisted, Our places are assigned.
# Poems of Passion/A Meeting

Quite carelessly I turned the newsy sheet; A song I sang, full many a year ago, Smiled up at me, as in a busy street One meets an old-time friend he used to know.
So full it was, that simple little song, Of all the hope, the transport, and the truth, Which to the impetuous morn of life belong, That once again I seemed to grasp my youth.
So full it was of that sweet, fancied pain We woo and cherish ere we meet with woe, I felt as one who hears a plaintive strain His mother sang him in the long ago.
Up from the grave the years that lay between That song's birthday and my stern present came Like phantom forms and swept across the scene, Bearing their broken dreams of love and fame.
Fair hopes and bright ambitions that I knew In that old time, with their ideal grace, Shone for a moment, then were lost to view Behind the dull clouds of the commonplace.
With trembling hands I put the sheet away; Ah, little song! the sad and bitter truth Struck like an arrow when we met that day! My life has missed the promise of its youth.
# Poems of Passion/A Picture

I strolled last eve across the lonely down;  One solitary picture struck my eye:  A distant ploughboy stood against the sky— How far he seemed above the noisy town!
Upon the bosom of a cloud the sod  Laid its bruised cheek as he moved slowly by,  And, watching him, I asked myself if I In very truth stood half as near to God.
# Poems of Passion/A Waltz-Quadrille

The band was playing a waltz-quadrille,  I felt as light as a wind-blown feather, As we floated away, at the caller's will,  Through the intricate, mazy dance together. Like mimic armies our lines were meeting, Slowly advancing, and then retreating,  All decked in their bright array; And back and forth to the music's rhyme We moved together, and all the time  I knew you were going away.
The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill  From heart to brain as we gently glided Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-quadrille;  Parted, met, and again divided— You drifting one way, and I another, Then suddenly turning and facing each other,  Then off in the blithe chasse, Then airily back to our places swaying, While every beat of the music seemed saying  That you were going away.
I said to my heart, "Let us take our fill  Of mirth and music and love and laughter; For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille,  And life will be never the same life after. Oh, that the caller might go on calling, Oh, that the music might go on falling  Like a shower of silver spray, While we whirled on to the vast Forever, Where no hearts break, and no ties sever,  And no one goes away."
A clamor, a crash, and the band was still;  'Twas the end of the dream, and the end of the measure: The last low notes of that waltz-quadrille  Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of Pleasure. You said good-night, and the spell was over— Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a lover—  There was nothing else to say; But the lights looked dim, and the dancers weary, And the music was sad, and the hall was dreary,  After you went away.
# Poems of Passion/Answered

Good-bye—yes, I am going.  Sudden? Well, you are right; But a startling truth came home to me  With sudden force last night. What is it? Shall I tell you?  Nay, that is why I go. I am running away from the battlefield  Turning my back on the foe.
Riddles? You think me cruel!  Have you not been most kind? Why, when you question me like that,  What answer can I find? You fear you failed to amuse me,  Your husband's friend and guest, Whom he bade you entertain and please—  Well, you have done your best. Then why am I going?  A friend of mine abroad, Whose theories I have been acting upon,  Has proven himself a fraud. You have heard me quote from Plato  A thousand times no doubt; Well, I have discovered he did not know  What he was talking about.
You think I am speaking strangely?  You cannot understand? Well, let me look down into your eyes,  And let me take your hand. I am running away from danger;  I am flying before I fall; I am going because with heart and soul  I love you—that is all. There, now you are white with anger;  I knew it would be so. You should not question a man too close  When he tells you he must go.
# Poems of Passion/Art and Heart

Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover, It is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over.
Though smooth be the heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it, And the finest phrase falls dead if there is no feeling behind it.
Though perfect the player's touch, little, if any, he sways us, Unless we feel his heart throb through the music he plays us.
Though the poet may spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure, Unless he writes from a full, warm heart he gives us little pleasure.
So it is not the speech which tells, but the impulse which goes with the saying; And it is not the words of the prayer, but the yearning back of the praying.
It is not the artist's skill which into our soul comes stealing With a joy that is almost pain, but it is the player's feeling.
And it is not the poet's song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming, Which thrills us through and through, but the heart which beats under the rhyming.
And therefore I say again, though I am art's own true lover, That it is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over.
# Poems of Passion/A Fable

Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl, A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl, One day all meet together To hold a caucus and settle the fate Of a certain bird (without a mate), A bird of another feather.
"My friends," said the Owl, with a look most wise, "The Eagle is soaring too near the skies, In a way that is quite improper; Yet the world is praising her, so I'm told, And I think her actions have grown so bold That some of us ought to stop her."
"I have heard it said," quoth Hawk, with a sigh, "That young lambs died at the glance of her eye, And I wholly scorn and despise her. This, and more, I am told they say, And I think that the only proper way Is never to recognize her."
"I am quite convinced," said Crow, with a caw, "That the Eagle minds no moral law, She's a most unruly creature." "She's an ugly thing," piped Canary Bird; "Some call her handsome—it's so absurd— She hasn't a decent feature."
Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about, She said she was sure—she hadn't a doubt— Of the truth of each bird's story: And she thought it a duty to stop her flight, To pull her down from her lofty height, And take the gilt from her glory.
But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grand That looks out over the smiling land And over the mighty ocean, The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings— She rises, rises, and upward swings, With a slow, majestic motion.
Up in the blue of God's own skies, With a cry of rapture, away she flies, Close to the Great Eternal: She sweeps the world with her piercing sight; Her soul is filled with the infinite And the joy of things supernal.
Thus rise forever the chosen of God, The genius-crowned or the power-shod, Over the dust-world sailing; And back, like splinters blown by the winds, Must fall the missiles of silly minds, Useless and unavailing.
# Poets of John Company/The Mussulman's Lament

The Mussulman's Lament over the body of Tippoo Sultan.
Written on the spot where he fell.
Light of my faith! thy flame is quench'd In this deep night of blood; The sceptre from thy race is wrenched. And of the brave who stood Around thy Musnud, strong and true. When this day's sunrise on the brow Of yonder mountains glanced, how few Are left to weep thee now!
Star of the battle! thou art set; But thou didst not sink down. As those who could their fame forget, Before the tempest's frown; As those crown'd dastards, who could crave The mercy of their haughty foes. Better to perish with the brave. Than live and reign like those.
No! thou hast to thy battle-bed Rush'd like thy native sun. Whose fiercest, brightest rays are shed When his race is nearest done; Where sabres flash'd and vollies rang. And quickest sped the parting breath. Thou, from a life of empire, sprang To meet a soldier's death.
Thy mighty father joyfully Look'd from his throne on high; He mark'd his spirit live in thee, He smiled to see thee die; To see thy sabre's last faint sweep Tinged with a foeman's gore; To see thee sink to the hero's sleep, With thy red wounds all before.
The faithful, in their emerald bowers The toobah-tree beneath, Have twined thee of unfading flowers, The martyr's glorious wreath; And dark-eyed girls of Paradise, Their jewell'd kerchiefs wave, To welcome to their crystal skies The Sultan of the brave.
# Poets of John Company/The Pindaree

JAMES HUTCHINSON.
1796—1858.
The Pindaree.
The steed paws the ground, with a snort and a neigh, The Pindaree has mounted, and hied him away; He has braced on his shield, and his sword by his side. And forth he has gone, on a foray to ride.
His turban is twisted, and wreathed round his brow, Its colour as red, as his blood in its glow; From his shoulder behind him his carbine is slung, And light o'er his saddle his long spear is hung.
Loose streams to the wind his white flowing garb, And gaily bedeck'd is his Dekhani barb; To the bells at his neck, that chime as they ride. His charger is bounding and prancing in pride.
His comrades are joined, they are mounted alike; They must drink, they must smoke, ere their tents they will strike— Their tents did I say? they are spangled and high, Their couches the ground, and their curtains the sky.
Through the jungle they wend, till they reach the broad stream; It is shallow enough, and they cross in the gleam Of a moon shining sweet as the smile on the face Of the maiden we love, and would die to embrace.
The river is forded, the frontier is passed, And they reach the lone village by midnight at last: Would you gather its fate? In the darkness of night The forests around it are red in its light.
Its dwellers have fled, in the wild woods to roam; All roofless and black is the place of their home; And their daughters, dishonoured, are weeping in vain, Nor will boast of their pride and their scorning again.
# Poets of John Company/The Land of Regrets

The Land of Regrets.
"Yea, they thought scorn of that pleasant land."
What far-reaching Nemesis steered him From his home by the cool of the sea? When he left the fair country that reared him, When he left her, his mother, for thee, That restless, disconsolate worker Who strains now in vain at thy nets, O sultry and sombre Noverca! O Land of Regrets!
What lured him to life in the tropic? Did he venture for fame or for pelf? Did he seek a career philanthropic? Or simply to better himself? But whate'er the temptation that brought him, Whether piety, dullness, or debts. He is thine for a price, thou hast bought him, O Land of Regrets!
He did list to the voice of a siren, He was caught by the clinking of gold, And the slow toil of Europe seemed tiring, And the grey of his fatherland cold; He must haste to the gardens of Circe; What ails him, the slave, that he frets In thy service? O Lady sans merci! O Land of Regrets!
From the East came the breath of its odours And its heat melted soft in the haze, While he dimly descried thy pagodas, O Cybele, ancient of days; Heard the hum of thy mystic processions, The echo of myriads who cry. And the wail of their vain intercessions, Through the bare empty vault of the sky.
Did he read of the lore of thy sages? Of thy worships by mountain and flood? Did he muse o'er thy annals? the pages All blotted with treason and blood; Thy chiefs and thy dynasties reckon? Thy armies—he saw them come forth O'er the wide stony wolds of the Dekhan, O'er the cities and plains of the North.
He was touched with the tales of our glory, He was stirred by the clash and the jar Of the nations who kill con amore, The fury of races at war; 'Mid the crumbling of royalties rotting, Each cursed by a knave or a fool, Where kings and fanatics are plotting, He dreamt of a power and a rule; Hath he come now, in season, to know thee; Hath he seen, what a stranger forgets, All the graveyards of exiles below thee, O Land of Regrets!
Has he learnt how thy honours are rated? Has he cast his accounts in thy school? With the sweets of authority sated, Would he give up his throne to be cool? Doth he curse Oriental romancing, And wish he had toiled all his day, At the Bar, or the Banks, or financing. And got damned in a common-place way?
Thou hast racked him with duns and diseases. And he lies, as thy scorching winds blow, Recollecting old England's sea breezes On his back in a lone bungalow; At the slow coming darkness repining, How he girds at the sun till it sets, As he marks the long shadows declining O'er the Land of Regrets.
Let him cry, as thy blue devils seize him, O step-mother, careless as Fate, He may strive from thy bonds to release him. Thou hast passed him his sentence—Too Late; He has found what a blunder his youth is. His prime what a struggle, and yet Has to learn of old age what the truth is In the Land of Regret.
# Poets of John Company/The Mosquito's Song

JAMES YOUNG
1797—1846.
The Mosquito's Song.
'Oh the pleasures of the plains In Bengal, and in the Rains, When the climate, damp and warm, Makes our tiny tribes to swarm From each puddle, from each tank, Fringed with vegetation rank; Whence, 'mid duck-weed hatched, and slime. In the fullness of good time, Shuffled off our maggot coil, Start we into life's turmoil, Clamorous, winged, and armed for fight. Speeding quick our eager flight, Ravenous, in quest of prey. With the sun's declining ray. Let us to the Fort repair, In the Royal Barracks—there. Sure to find the ruddy Griffin, Full of beer and full of tiffin. In the sultry afternoon, Legs on table lolling; soon Hies he to his tempting cot, Stretching him supine; forgot Cares and sorrows, scanty pay. Duns that haunt the livelong day, All forgot. Anon the book. That in listless hand he took, Drops upon his breast, as close his Languid eyes: he yawns, he dozes; Sinks at length in sleep unquiet. Wild fantastic visions riot. Flitting o'er his throbbing brain. Till all is chaos come again!
Dreams he of pale Hodgson's ghost! Shouts again the ideal toast! Lo! the bottle's petticoats Change to gown of her he doats Upon:—his youthful village love, Left to pine while he would rove Foreign lands and nymphs among. Soft! he lists her well known song, Wood-notes wild, so long, so clear, Echo in his straining ear! —Silly dreamer! wild-wood notes Here be none!—save from our throats, Shrill ear-piercing trumps that sound, While we flit our victim round!
Unsuspecting yet he lies. Dreaming of fair lady's eyes, Visionary phantasms bright. Mocking still his mental sight. Kisses,—poutings,—true-love token— Ancient crooked-sixpence broken— All in gay confusion dance. Then, the fond, the piercing glance Her bright eyes' unerring dart. Winged into his very heart. Oh the torture! and the smart!
—Silly dreamer! dart or wing, Here be none!—save from our throats.
Which with vigorous aim we ply, As the lubbard wight doth lie, Flushed with heat, and sleep, and ale,
While our hovering troops assail, Juicy English cheek and lip; Thus with oft repeated dip. In we plunge the sharp proboscis.
Hunger is the best of sauces. And we lack no cookery, Griffin-blood, to relish thee!
Thus we suck, and gaze, and swill, Till our reddening bodies fill; Wing we then our lazy flight. Snug to roost on giddy height. Shelf, or book-case, or almirah's Top. No rest for him! our virus Quick ferments! each festering sore Seems a voice, cries 'Sleep no more! Gnats have murdered sleep (that knits up Ravelled sleeve of care!')—He sits up Startled,—scarce awake,—head bursting,— —Itching,—scratching,—smarting,—thirsting;— Curses deep, and loud, and long, Yet unsated, chaunt their song. Oh the pleasures of the plains In Bengal, and in the Rains!