MELPOMENE. In my meditations on the genius and poetry of LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, I have always associated her with Melpomene, one of the nine Muses, the presiding goddess of sorrow; and hence I have placed the following stanzas to the memory of L. E. L. under that title. He has outsoared the shadow of the night, A heart grown cold ADONAIS. I. THOU wert not made for happiness on earth, Thy spirit nature had too finely strung With feelings that were of ethereal birth, And sad its moans as sighs that whisper from the tomb. II. HIGH-GIFTED Woman! gloomy, mournful thing! And rough, and dark, and fraught with suffering; Of helpless victims whose fair names they blot: III. THY youth, thy innocence, dependent state,1 Thy high aspiring mind, unbounded praise, Did point thee out a fitting mark for Hate And Envy's poisoned arrows: He who lays His course in life's high walks, and tries to raise Himself in being's scale, must bear the sting And scoff of those who plod in narrow ways— They are the brood doomed near the earth to cling, And in despite would clip the soaring eagle's wing. IV. SORROW appeareth in full many a shape,2 And none are skilled to tell the whence or why Such tears are shed-such moans the heart escape; They may arise alone from sympathy— Some secret, sudden blow of cruelty, Or wrong, or guilt it may be doth compel And strive amid the camp, or ocean's swell, V. SOME seek from grief in tears a partial rest, There feed, and brood above its hoarded woes, Writhing it fiercely turns and stings itself to death. VI. THOU wert one of that pining race who seem Whose lot is here to toil, and sing, and dream, VII. POOR unprotected wanderers they come VIII. АH! hard the fate that life on such bestows, Some breathed out life within a prison's cell, Some, too, have cut it short in its full prime— Death the sole stroke their agonies could quell; And some through tears have lit with thought sublime Their own funereal pyre to gild the night of time. IX. BRAVE Ghibelline !3 thou of the sword and lyre! The long oblivion of the cold, dark tomb, And twines thy brow with wreaths of an immortal bloom. |