Cupid and Swallows Flying From Winter. by Dagley
‘We fly from the cold.’
AWAY, away, o’er land and sea,
This is now no home for me;
My light wings may never bear
Northern cloud or winter air.
Murky shades are gathering fast,
Sleet and snow are on the blast,
Trees from which the leaves are fled,
Flowers whose very roots are dead,
Grass of its green blade bereft,
These are all that now are left.
—Linger here another day,
I shall be as sad as they;
My companions fly with spring,
I too must be on the wing.
Where are the sweet gales whose song
Wont to waft my darts along?
Scented airs! oh, not like these,
Rough as they which sweep the seas;
But those sighs of rose which bring
Incense from their wandering.
Where are the bright flowers that kept
Guard around me while I slept?
Where the sunny eyes whose beams
Waken’d me from my soft dreams?—
These are with the swallows gone,—
Beauty’s heart is chill’d to stone.
Oh! for some sweet southern clime,
Where ’tis ever summer time,—
Where, if blossoms fall, their tomb
Is amid new birth of bloom,—
Where green leaves are ever springing,
Where the lark is always singing,—
One of those bright isles which lie
Fair beneath an azure sky,
Isles of cinnamon and spice,
Shadow each of Paradise,—
Where the flowers shine with dyes,
Tinted bright from the sun-rise,—
Where the birds which drink their dew,
Wave wings of yet brighter hue,
And each river’s course is roll’d
Over bed of pearl and gold!
Oh! for those lime-scented groves
Where the Spanish lover roves,
Tuning to the western star,
His soft song and light guitar,—
Where the dark hair’d girls are dancing,
Fairies in the moonlight glancing,
With pencill’d brows, and radiant eyes,
Like their planet-lighted skies!
Or those clear Italian lakes
Where the silver cygnet makes
Its soft nest of leaf and flower,
A white lily for its bower!
Each of these a home would be,
Fit for beauty and for me:
I must seek their happier sphere
While the Winter lords it here.
Other works by Letitia Elizabeth Landon...
To Olinthus Gregory, on Hearing of the Death of His Eldest Son, Who Was Drowned as He Was Returning by Water to His Father’s House at Woolrich
IS there a spot where Pity’s foot… Although unsandalled, fears to tre… A silence where her voice is mute, Where tears, and only tears, are s… It is the desolated home
