The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 104, June, 1866

"But hark! she sings 'she does not love me':
She loves to say she ne'er can love.
To me her beauty she denies,—
Bending the while on me those eyes,
Whose beams might charm the mountain leopard,
Or lure Jove's herald from above!"

Below the following exquisite bit of melody is written, "Never was any sonnet so beautiful."

"She whom this heart must ever hold most dear
(This heart in happy bondage held so long)
Began to sing. At first a gentle fear
Rosied her countenance, for she is young,
And he who loves her most of all was near:
But when at last her voice grew full and strong,
O, from their ambush sweet, how rich and clear
Bubbled the notes abroad,—a rapturous throng!
Her little hands were sometimes flung apart,
And sometimes palm to palm together prest;
While wave-like blushes rising from her breast
Kept time with that aerial melody,
As music to the sight!—I standing nigh
Received the falling fountain in my heart."

"What sonnet of Petrarca equals this?" he says of the following:—

"Happy are they who kiss thee, morn and even,
Parting the hair upon thy forehead white;
For them the sky is bluer and more bright,
And purer their thanksgivings rise to Heaven.
Happy are they to whom thy songs are given;
Happy are they on whom thy hands alight;
And happiest they for whom thy prayers at night
In tender piety so oft have striven.
Away with vain regrets and selfish sighs!
Even I, dear friend, am lonely, not unblest:
Permitted sometimes on that form to gaze,
Or feel the light of those consoling eyes,—
If but a moment on my cheek it stays,
I know that gentle beam from all the rest!"

"Like Shakespeare's, but better, is this allegory:—

"You say that you have given your love to me.
Ah, give it not, but lend it me; and say
That you will ofttimes ask me to repay,
But never to restore it: so shall we,
Retaining, still bestow perpetually:
So shall I ask thee for it every day,
Securely as for daily bread we pray;
So all of favor, naught of right shall be.
The joy which now is mine shall leave me never.
Indeed, I have deserved it not; and yet
No painful blush is mine,—so soon my face
Blushing is hid in that beloved embrace.
Myself I would condemn not, but forget;
Remembering thee alone, and thee forever!"

"Worthy of Raleigh and like him," is Landor's preface to the following sonnet:—

"Flowers I would bring, if flowers could make thee fairer,
And music, if the Muse were dear to thee;
(For loving these would make thee love the bearer.)
But sweetest songs forget their melody,
And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:—
A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she
Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her,
Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.
Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee,
What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee,
When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee,
And all old poets and old songs adore thee.
And love to thee is naught, from passionate mood
Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!"

Occasionally Landor indulges in a little humorous indignation, particularly in his remarks on the poem of which Coleridge is the hero. De Vere's lines end thus:—

"Soft be the sound ordained thy sleep to break!
When thou art waking, wake me, for thy Master's sake!"

"And let me nap on," wrote the august critic, who had no desire to meet Coleridge, even as a celestial being.

Now and then there is a dash of the pencil across some final verse, with the remark, "Better without these." Twice or thrice Landor finds fault with a word. He objects to the expression, "eyes so fair," saying fair is a bad word for eyes.

The subject of Latin being one day mentioned, Landor very eagerly proposed that I should study this language with him.

The thought was awful, and I expostulated. "But, Mr. Landor, you who are so noble a Latinist can never have the patience to instruct such a stumbling scholar."

"I insist upon it. You shall be my first pupil," he said, laughing at the idea of beginning to teach in his extreme old age. "It will give the old man something to do."

"But you will get very tired of me, Mr. Landor."

"Well, well, I'll tell you when I am tired. You say you have a grammar; then I'll bring along with me to-morrow something to read."

True to his promise, the "old pedagogue," for so he was wont to call himself, made his appearance with a time-worn Virgil under his arm,—a Virgil that in 1809 was the property, according to much pen and ink scribbling, of one "John Prince, ætat. 12. College School, Hereford."

"Now, then, for our lesson," Landor exclaimed, in a cheery voice. "Giallo knows all about it, and quite approves of the arrangement. Don't you, Giallo?" And the wise dog wagged his sympathetic tail, jumped up on his master's knees, and put his fore paws around Landor's neck. "There, you see, he gives consent; for this is the way Giallo expresses approbation."

The kindness and amiability of my teacher made me forget his greatness, and I soon found myself reciting with as much ease as if there had been nothing strange in the affair. He was very patient, and never found fault with me, but his criticisms on my Latin grammar were frequent and severe. "It is strange," he would mutter, "that men cannot do things properly. There is no necessity for this rule; it only confuses the pupil. That note is absurd; this, unintelligible. Grammars should be made more comprehensible."