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# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1835/Venice

* VENICE SANTA SALUTE
* Drawn by C. BentleyEngraved by J. Thomas
VENICE.
BY MISS L. E. LANDON.
I. Aye, the Ocean has bright daughters,
 Each one a crowned queen;
Whose empire o'er the waters
 A fairy tale has been;
A tale of pomp and glory,
 Of fame on land and sea,
An old historic story,
 Such Venice tells of thee.
The soldier and the sailor
 Were each of them thine own;
The Pilgrim's cheek grew paler,
 Where'er thy name was known.
II.
Where the Ottoman's white crescent
 Arose o'er Christian blood,
Was the winged Lion present,
 To pour a darker flood. That banner met the morning,
 St. Mark its guard and guide;
Still the battle front adorning,
 His Lion led the tide.
Then resting from his labour,
 He sought his place of pride,
For the ataghan and sabre
 Were shivered at his side.
III.
Fair Venice, like a beauty,
 Arose from out the sea;
The waves, with a sweet duty,
 Were proud her slaves to be:
The fleets she sent to rove them
 Their empire seemed to know,
With a favouring sky above them,
 A subject sea below:
Now sent on warlike sallies,
 Now on some richer quest,
The bold Republic's gallies
 Were known from east to west.
IV.
Dalmatia's forest highlands
 Were searched for slaves and ore;
The soft Ionian Islands
 Gave up their summer store;
The olive, fig, and myrtle,
 All woods, the sweet and rare;
Silks for the maiden's kirtle,
 Pearls for her shining hair;
And myrrh in silver measures,
 And spices, oil, and grain,
These heaped the merchant treasures
 She brought from off the main.
V.
When the summer day declining,
 Sank purple o'er her towers,
How lovely was the shining
 Of evening's early hours;
Then beneath the moonlight gliding,
 Swept the gondolas along,
While the gondoliers seemed guiding
 Their dark barks with a song.
With barcarolles sweet laden,
 The wind to music turned;
While the cheek of many a maiden
 With conscious crimson burned.
VI.
There was many a princely greeting
 On good St. Mark's broad square;
And many a festal meeting
 Rejoiced the midnight air;
For her nobles dwelt in palaces,
 Whose marble mocked the brine,
And drank from golden chalices
 The Cypriot's golden wine.
For she was called "The Pleasant,"
 That city of the mask;
Where the light hours of the present
 Were sped with lute and flask.
VII.
But her glory is departed,
 And her pleasure is no more,
Like a pale queen, broken-hearted,
 Left lonely on the shore.
No more the waves are cumbered
 With her galleys bold and free;
For her days of pride are numbered,
 And she rules no more the sea.
Her sword has left her keeping,
 Her prows forget the tide,
And the Adriatic weeping
 Wails round his mourning bride.
VIII.
Gloomy, the proud Venetian
 Surveys his father's halls,
Where the fading hues of Titian
 Yet light the mouldering walls.
For they look reproach and sorrow,
 They dreamed not the disgrace
That would darken o'er the morrow
 Of the once Patrician race.
In those straits is desolation,
 And darkness and dismay—
Venice, no more a nation,
 Has owned the stranger's sway.
# 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.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Literary Souvenir, 1835/The Grecian Garden

* ANCIENT GARDEN
* Drawn by F. Danby R. A.Engraved by W. Hill
THE GRECIAN GARDEN.
BY MISS L. E. LANDON.
I.
'Tis lonely as my own sad heart,
 ’Tis silent as my own still lute,
Fair garden—lovely as thou art,
 Thy walks are lorn, thy songs are mute.
The sun-set's melancholy beam
 Falls o'er thy vases' sculptured snow,
These urns for roses made, now seem
 As if the dead were laid below.
II.
The statues wear a sterner brow
 Than they were wont to wear of old;
The blossoms, drooping from the bough,
 Leave half sweet summer's tale untold.
Droop, droop, pale flowers, for ye are mine;
 Your early doom my own will be;
Give me some sympathising sign
 That nature sorroweth with me.
III.
Ah! folly—yonder solemn sky
 Is not for pity, but for prayer;
And Nature's universal eye
 Weeps not, though one wrung heart despair.
Oh wind! that with a noiseless wing
 Art wandering 'mid the olive grove,
In vain I ask of thee to bring
 Some solace for my grief and love.
IV.
Let echo, by thy voice, reveal
 All I would ask the wind to tell;
Echo might surely pity feel,
 For sorrow she hath known so well.
Ah! bring me one beloved face,
 Ah! breathe me one beloved name:
I wish I could one moment trace
 His path of fortune, and of fame.
V.
Yet wherefore should I seek to know
 The path that I may never share;
Oh! flower, that for the sun dost blow,
 Say thou how dear is such fond care.
Life cannot fling again the gleam
 First flung on morning's glancing tide;
I'd rather keep its sweet sad dream
 Than win a waking world beside.
VI.
How often in his purple wine
 He's bathed the red rose from my hair,
And said, "The cup is pale, love mine!
 Unless what breathes of thee be there."
When others in his halls rejoice,
 And wake the lute, and lead the choir
Ah! does he miss Ione's voice,
 And does he miss Ione's lyre?
VII.
I will not call him false, but changed;
 Some change the wanderer may restore;
Alas! the heart, when once estranged,
 Returns to its first faith no more.
I only ask to weep apart,—
 Reproach I scorn,—regret is vain;
Yet, idol of my dreaming heart,
 You'll never be so loved again.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 33

Scans
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# Poems of Optimism/The Ghosts

There was no wind, and yet the air  Seemed suddenly astir; There were no forms, and yet all space  Seemed thronged with growing hosts. They came from Where, and from Nowhere,  Like phantoms as they were; They came from many a land and place -  The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.
And some were white, and some were grey,  And some were red as blood - Those ghosts of men who met their death  Upon the field of war. Against the skies of fading day,  Like banks of cloud they stood; And each wraith asked another wraith,  ‘What were we fighting for?’
One said, ‘I was my mother’s all;  And she was old and blind.’ Another, ‘Back on earth, my wife  And week-old baby lie.’ Another, ‘At the bugle’s call,  I left my bride behind; Love made so beautiful my life  I could not bear to die.’
In voices like the winds that moan  Among pine trees at night, They whispered long, the newly dead,  While listening stars came out. ‘We wonder if the cause is known,  And if the war was right, That killed us in our prime,’ they said,  ‘And what it was about.’
They came in throngs that filled all space -  Those whispering phantom hosts; They came from many a land and place,  The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.
# Poems of Optimism/The land of the gone-away-souls

Oh! that is a beautiful land I wis, The land of the Gone-Away Souls. Yes, a lovelier region by far than this (Though this is a world most fair), The goodliest goal of all good goals, Else why do our friends stay there? I walk in a world that is sweet with friends, And earth I have ever held dear; Yes, love with duty and beauty blends, To render the earth plane bright. But faster and faster, year on year My comrades hurry from sight.
They hurry away to the Over-There, And few of them say Farewell. Yes, they go away with a secret air As if on a secret quest. And they come not back to the earth to tell Why that land seems the best.
Messages come from the mystic sphere, But few know the code of that land; Yes, many the message, but few who hear In the din of the world below, Or hearing the message, can understand Those truths which we long to know.
But it must be the goal of all good goals, And I think of it more and more, Yes I think of that land of the Gone-Away-Souls And its growing host of friends Who will hail my bark when it touches shore Where the last brief journey ends.
# Poems of Optimism/The Peace Angel

Angel of Peace, the hounds of war, Unleashed, are all abroad, And war’s foul trade again is made  Man’s leading aim in life. Blood dyes the billow and the sod;  The very winds are rife With tales of slaughter. Angel, pray, What can we do or think or say In times like these?  ‘Child, think of God!’
‘Before this little speck in space Called Earth with light was shod, Great chains and tiers of splendid spheres  Were fashioned by His hand. Be thine the part to love and laud,  Nor seek to understand. Go lift thine eyes from death-charged guns To one who made a billion suns; And trust and wait.  Child, dwell on God!’
# Poems of Optimism/The Winds of Fate

One ship drives east and another drives west, With the self-same winds that blow,  ’Tis the set of the sails  And not the gales That tell them the way to go. Like the winds of the sea are the winds of fate, As we voyage along through life,  ’Tis the set of the soul  That decides its goal And not the calm or the strife.
# Poems of Optimism/The eternal now

Time with his back against the mighty wall,  Which hides from view all future joy and sorrow, Hears, without answer, the impatient call  Of puny man, to tell him of to-morrow.
Moral, be wise, and to the silence bow,  These useless and unquiet ways forsaking; Concern thyself with the Eternal Now -  To-day hold all things, ready for thy taking.
# Poems of Optimism/The harp’s song

All day, all day in a calm like death The harp hung waiting the sea wind’s breath.
When the western sky flushed red with shame At the sun’s bold kiss, the sea wind came.
Said the harp to the breeze, Oh, breathe as soft As the ring-dove cooes from its nest aloft.
I am full of a song that mothers croon When their wee ones tire of their play at noon.
Though a harp may feel ’tis a silent thing Till the breeze arises and bids it sing.
Said the wind to the harp, Nay, sing for me The wail of the dead that are lost at sea.
I caught their cry as I came along, And I hurried to find you and teach you the song.
Oh, the heart is the harp, and love is the breeze, And the song is ever what love may please.
# Poems of Optimism/The last dance

WHEN LOVE FOR HIS MAKER AWOKE IN MAN, THE DANCE BEGAN
The wave of the ocean, the leaf of the wood, In the rhythm of motion proclaim life is good. The stars are all swinging to metres and rhyme, The planets are singing while suns mark the time. The moonbeams and rivers float off in a trance, The Universe quivers - on, on with the dance!
Our partners we pick from the best of the throng In the ballroom of Life and go lilting along; We follow our fancy, and choose as we will, For waltz or for tango or merry quadrille; But ever one partner is waiting us all At the end of the programme, to finish the ball.
Unasked, and unwelcome, he comes without leave And calls when he chooses, ‘My dance, I believe?’ And none may refuse him, and none may say no; When he beckons the dancer, the dancer must go. You may hate him, and shun him; and yet in life’s ball For the one who lives well ’tis the best dance of all.
# Poems of Optimism/The little go-cart

It was long, long ago that a soul like a flower Unfolded, and blossomed, and passed in an hour. It was long, long ago; and the memory seems Like the pleasures and sorrows that come in our dreams.
The kind years have crowned me with many a joy Since the going away of my wee little boy; Each one as it passed me has stooped with a kiss, And left some delight - knowing one thing I miss.
But when in the park or the street, all elate A baby I see in his carriage of state, As proud as a king, in his little go-cart - I feel all the mother-love stir in my heart!
And I seem to be back in that long-vanished May; And the baby, who came but to hurry away In the little white hearse, is not dead, but alive, And out in his little go-cart for a drive.
I whisper a prayer as he rides down the street, And my thoughts follow after him, tender and sweet; For I know, by a law that is vast and divine, (Though I know not his name) that the baby is mine!
# Poems of Optimism/The invisible helpers

There are, there are Invisible Great Helpers of the race. Across unatlased continents of space, From star to star.  In answer to some soul’s imperious need,  They speed, they speed.
When the earth-loving young are forced to stand Upon the border of the Unknown Land, They come, they come - those angels who have trod The altitudes of God, And to the trembling heart Their strength impart.  Have you not seen the delicate young maid, Filled with the joy of life in her fair dawn,  Look in the face of death, all unafraid, And smilingly pass on?
This is not human strength; not even faith  Has such large confidence in such an hour.  It is a power Supplied by beings who have conquered death.  Floating from sphere to sphere  They hover near The souls that need the courage they can give.
This is no vision of a dreamer’s mind. Though we are blind They live, they live, Filling all space - Invisible Great Helpers of the race.
# Poems of Optimism/The men-made gods

Said the Kaiser’s god to the god of the Czar:  ‘Hark, hark, how my people pray. Their faith, methinks, is greater by far Than all the faiths of the others are;  They know I will help them slay.’
Said the god of the Czar: ‘My people call  In a medley of tongues; they know I will lend my strength to them one and all. Wherever they fight their foes shall fall  Like grass where the mowers go.’
Then the god of the Gauls spoke out of a cloud  To the god of the King nearby: ‘Our people pray, tho’ they pray not loud; They ask for courage to slaughter a crowd,  And to laugh, tho’ themselves may die.’
And far out into the heart of Space  Where a lonely pathway crept, Up over the stars, to a secret place, Where no light shone but the light of His face,  Christ covered His eyes and wept.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 36/January 1890/Obituary Notes

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Prof. Victor Eggertz, late head of the School of Mines of Sweden, died in Stockholm in the last days of August. He was the inventor of what is called the coloration test for analyzing carbon in iron and steel.
Mr. E. F. H. Francis, Professor of Chemistry in Queen's College, Georgetown, Demerara, and analytical chemist to the Government, has recently died, aged thirty-nine years. He went to the service in British Guiana from a similar position in Trinidad in 1875.
Señor Don Sebastian Vidal, who died at Manila July 28, 1889, had been for several years Inspector-General of Forests and Director of the Botanic Garden at Manila, and was the author of several works on Philippine botany. He was practically a pioneer in the investigation of the Philippine flora, and has determined several peculiarities distinguishing it from the allied Malayan flora.
Mr. John Ball, F.R.S., a distinguished traveler, Alpine explorer, and botanist, of England, died in London, October 10, 1889, soon after returning from an excursion to the Dolomite Alps. He was born in Dublin in 1818; won high mathematical honors at Cambridge; was called to the bar, and appointed an assistant Poor Law Commissioner, served in Parliament and as Under Secretary for the Colonies, and then withdrew from public life and devoted himself to Alpine exploration and botany. He accompanied Sir Joseph Hooker to Morocco, and wrote an account of the botany and natural history of the highlands of that country. He also visited Peru and Patagonia and the Island of Teneriffe, for scientific exploration. He published an "Alpine Guide," which is spoken of as a work of standard merit.
The distinguished French chemist, Dr. Augustin Quesneville, died on the 4th of November, 1889, aged eighty years. He was a pupil of Vauquelin's, and succeeded him in his factory. Having attended Chevreul's lectures, he was admitted as a doctor of medicine in 1834, from which time he devoted himself to the study of science and industrial chemistry. In 1840 he founded a monthly journal, called at first the "Revue Scientifique," but after 1857 the "Moniteur Scientifique," devoted to chemistry and its industrial applications. This journal was continued till October last, when the veteran editor gave it up, on account of the pressure of old age.
"Ciel et Terre" records the death, on the 10th of October, in his sixty-sixth year, of M. François Henri Carlier, proprietor and director of the Meteorological Observatory of Saint Martin-de-Hinx in the Landes. This establishment is described as having been a model one, and better furnished than many state-supported observatories. The observations taken there under M. Carlier during the past twenty-five years form one of the most important contributions to the study of the climate of the extreme south-east of France.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/10

On the Queen.
WHEN we reflect upon our charming Queen, Her Wit, her Beauty, her Imperial Mein; Majestick Juno in her Air we find, The Form of Venus, with Minerva's Mind: Who was so grac’d, she, she was fit alone With Royal James to fill the British Throne.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/14

To MYRA.
WArn'd and made wise by others Flame, I fled from whence such Mischiefs came, Shunning the Sex that kills at Sight, I sought my Safety in my Flight.
But ah! in vain from Fate we fly! For, first or last, as all must die; So 'tis as much decreed above, That, first or last, we all must love.
My Heart, that stood so long the Shock Of Winds and Waves, like some firm Rock, By one bright Spark from Myra thrown, Is into Flame, like Powder, blown.
# Poems translated from the French of Madame de la Mothe Guion/The Swallow

THE SWALLOW.
Vol. 2, Cantique 54.
I AM fond of the Swallow—I learn from her flight, Had I skill to improve it, a lesson of Love: How seldom on Earth do we see her alight! She dwells in the skies, she is ever above.
It is on the wing that she takes her repose, Suspended, and pois'd in the regions of air, 'Tis not in our fields that her sustenance grows, It is wing'd like herself, 'tis ethereal fare.
She comes in the Spring, all the Summer she stays, And dreading the cold, still follows the sun— So, true to our Love, we should covet his rays, And the place where he shines not, immediately shun.
Our light should be Love, and our nourishment Pray'r; It is dangerous food that we find upon Earth; The fruit of this world is beset with a snare, In itself it is hurtful, as vile in its birth.
'Tis rarely, if ever, she settles below, And only when building a nest for her young; Were it not for her brood, she would never bestow A thought upon any thing filthy as dung.
Let us leave it ourselves ('tis a mortal abode) To bask ev'ry moment in infinite Love; Let us fly the dark winter, and follow the road That leads to the day-spring appearing above.
# Poems upon Several Occasions

POEMS
UPON
Several Occasions.
The Fourth Edition.
LONDON:
Printed for J. Tonson, at Shakespear's Head over-against Katharine-Street in the Strand.
M DCC XXVI.
THE
BOOKSELLER
TO THE
READER.
Am to inform the Reader, that the following Collection contains all the Poems which have been written by the Right Honourable George Granville, Lord Lansdown, very few of which have been ever before Printed; and as this Book is Published by his Lordship’s Permission, I ​question not but it will appear to be very Correct, which cannot be said of some of the Poems, which as I have been told, came formerly into the World without his Lordship’s Knowledge and Approbation. For this Reason, and in Consideration that the Subjects are various and entertaining, I make no doubt but this Edition will meet with a favourable Reception from the Publick.
THE
CONTENTS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems upon Several Occasions/11

LOVE.
TO Love, is to be doom’d, in Life, to feel What after Death the Tortur’d meet in Hell. The Vulture dipping in Prometheus' Side His bloody Beak, with his torn Liver dy’d, Is Love: The Stone that labours up the Hill, Mocking the Lab’rer’s Toil, returning still, Is Love: Those Streams where Tantalus is curst To sit, and never drink, with endless Thirst, Those loaden Boughs that with their Burthen bend To court his Taste, and yet escape his Hand, All this is Love, that to dissembled Joys Invites vain Men, with real Griefs destroys.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/15

To MYRA. SONG.
FOolish Love, begone, said I, Vain are thy Attempts on me, Thy soft Allurements I defie; Women, those fair Dissemblers, fly; My Heart is not made for thee.
Love heard, and strait prepar'd a Dart: Myra, revenge my Cause, said he. Too sure 'twas shot; I feel the Smart, It rends my Brain, and tears my Heart: O Love! my Conqueror, pity me.
# Poems translated from the French of Madame de la Mothe Guion/Truth and Divine Love rejected by the world

TRUTH AND DIVINE LOVE REJECTED BY THE WORLD.
Vol. 2, Cantique 22.
O LOVE! of pure and heav'nly birth! O! simple Truth, scarce known on earth! Whom men resist with stubborn will; And more perverse and daring still, Smother and quench, with reas'nings vain, While error and deception reign.
Whence comes it, that, your pow'r the same As His on high, from whom you came, Ye rarely find a list'ning ear, Or heart that makes you welcome here?— Because ye bring reproach and pain, Where'er ye visit, in your train.
The world is proud, and cannot bear The scorn and calumny ye share: The praise of men, the mark they mean, They fly the place where ye are seen; Pure Love, with scandal in the rear, Suits not the vain; it costs too dear.
​Then, let the price be what it may, Though poor, I am prepar'd to pay: Come shame, come sorrow; spite of tears, Weakness, and heart-oppressing fears; One soul, at last, shall not repine, To give you room, come, reign in mine!