Landon. Laetitia Elizabeth Landon (auf ihren frühern Werken nur durch die Initialen L. E. L. bezeichnet), ward 1804 in London geboren, erhielt eine sorgfältige Erziehung und zeichnete sich schon früh durch ihre dichterischen Fähigkeiten aus und trat zuerst um 1822 mit Poesieen hervor. Im Jahre 1838 vermählte sie sich mit George Maclean, dem Gouverneur von Cape-Coast-Castle und folgte diesem nach Südafrica, ward aber wenige Monate nachher am 15. October 1838 eines Morgens todt, ein Fläschchen mit Blausäure in der erstarrten Hand, an der Thür ihres Zimmers gefunden. Die Ursache ihres gewaltsamen Endes ist noch immer ein Räthsel. Vgl. The Life and Correspondence of L. E. L., London 1839, 3 Bde in 8. Ihre vorzüglichsten Schriften sind: The Improvisatrice, London 1825 u. ö.; the Troubadour, the golden Bracelet, the golden Violet, London 1825-1827; the Vow of the Peacock, London 1835, sämmtlich grössere romantisch- epische Gedichte, denen eine Reihe kleinerer angehängt ist. Ausserdem hat sie noch mehrere Bände Erzählungen und Romane,und viele kleinere prosaische Aufsätze und Dichtungen für Zeitschriften und Almanache verfasst. Eine überaus reiche Phantasie, Geschmack, Eleganz der Sprache und Harmonie des Verses sind die Hauptzierden ihrer Leistungen, deren Reiz oft durch eine melancholische Stimmung, die fast in ihren sämmtlichen Schriften vorwaltet, auf eigenthümliche Weise erhöht wird: doch war sie zu schöpferisch um ihren Arbeiten Tiefe und die nothwendige Vollendung geben zu können, was sie vielleicht erlangt haben würde, wenn ihr das Schicksal ein längeres, ungetrübtes Leben gestattet hätte. Venice. Morn on the Adriatic, every wave Is turned to light, and mimics the blue sky, The morning-time How beautiful the summer, and the morn, Do fear no enemy, and dread no fall. Morn on the Adriatic, bright and glad! Too gravely to be warmed by that delight So much beneath the shadow of the past: That bore the will of Venice round the world? I only see some sluggish fishing-boats. Is stripped from the bare walls; or else the moth The brave, the noble, who were once Venetians: But hourly doth the damp destroy their colours, and And Titian's hues are faded as the face From which he painted. With a downcast brow, for never city Drawing his dark robe round him, which no raised A prouder or a fairer brow than Venice, more Hides the rich silk or gems, walks the Venetian; but it spread to Only upon the glories of the dead; Her galleys o'er its depths, for war or wealth; And humble, with a bitter consciousness These are the things that tame the pride of man; The spectral writings on the wall of time, Man's destiny is not in his own hands. Roland's Tower. Rubies, and lighted amber; and thence spread So bright, are like the pleasures of this world, Around them ever. Wilder and more steep Tall pines rose up like warriors; the wild rose Sown by the wind, nursed by the dew and sun: O heaven, the deep fidelity of love! And on the steeps were crosses gray and old, Where, like a courser starting from the spur, A thousand deep-blue violets have grown They open with the earliest breath of spring; On the shore opposite a tower stands In ruins, with a mourning-robe of moss Which told the fate of some poor traveller. glove Or sunny curl were banners of the battle. Lord Herbert sat him in his hall: the hearth Hung on the gray and shattered walls, which of the young Roland's deeds, how he had fling A shadow on the waters; it comes o'er stood Against a host and conquered; when there came and never yet The waves, all bright with sunshine, like the A pilgrim to the hall 'Twas like a golden sea; and on the left Had stranger asked for shelter and in vain! Again they gathered round the hearth, again Were vineyards, whence the grapes shone forth "I would give worlds," she said, "to see this This gallant Roland! I could deem him all Knelt before Isabelle! - They loved; they were beloved. Oh, I have said all that can be said of bliss, has Isabelle has watched Day after day, night after night, in vain, Till she has wept in hopelessness and thought hap-Upon old histories, and said with them, "There is no hope in man's fidelity!" Isabelle stood upon her lonely tower; The young heart And as the evening-star rose up, she saw An armed train bearing her father's banner wild In triumph to the castle. Down she flew To greet the victors: they had reached the hall Before herself. What saw the maiden there? A bier! her father laid upon that bier! Roland was kneeling by the side, his face Bowed on his hands and hid; but Isabelle Such store of wealth in its own fresh pulse; And it is love that works the mind, brings Its treasure to the light. I did love once and genius loves; though now wear That falsest of false things My heart is chilled with fear, and taught to Knew the dark curling hair and stately form, smiles: Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red; The father of his worshipped Isabelle! And the hot noon flits by most rapidly, When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page and Isabelle was changed They met once more; As much as if a lapse of years had past: The twilight-walk, when the linked arms can She was so thin, so pale and her dim eye |