There once the steel-clad knight reclined, And, as the death-bell smote the wind, Then culture came, and days serene,- Father of many a forest deep, Whence many a navy thunder fraught! Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep, Soon destined o'er the world to sweep, Opening new spheres of thought! Wont in the night of woods to dwell, Thy singed top and branches bare Now straggle in the evening sky; And the wan moon wheels round to glare On the long corse that shivers there Of him who came to die! LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, was born in Hans Place, London. She is of the old Herefordshire family, of Tedstone-Delamere. Her father was, originally, intended for the navy; and sailed his first voyage as a midshipman, with his relative, Admiral Bowyer: he afterwards became a partner with Mr. Adair, the well-known army agent, but died while his daughter was very young. Her uncle, the Rev. Dr. Landon, is Head of Worcester College, and Dean of Exeter. As we have heard her say, she cannot remember the time when composition-in some shape or other-was not a habit. She used in her earliest childhood to invent long stories, and repeat them to her brother; these soon took a metrical form, and she frequently walked about the grounds of Trevor Park, and lay awake half the night, reciting her verses aloud. The realities of life began with her at a very early period. Her father's altered circumstances induced her to direct her mind to publication; and some of her poems were transmitted to the Editor of "the Literary Gazette," the first and the most constant of all her literary friends. He could scarcely believe they were written by the child who was introduced to him. "The Improvvisatrice" soon afterwards appeared, and obtained for her that reputation, to which every succeeding year has largely contributed. In person Miss Landon is small, and delicately framed; her form is exquisitely moulded; and her countenance is so full of expression, that, although her features are by no means regular, she must be considered handsome. Her conversation is brilliant, and abounds in wit. Like most persons of genius, her spirits are either too high or too low; and those who have seen her only during her moments of joyousness, imagine that the sadness which too generally pervades her writings, is all unreal. "Blame not her mirth who was sad yesterday, And may be sad to-morrow." One of her prose tales records the history of her childhood. It is but a gloomy one-and she treats it as the shadow of her after life. In a communication before us, she says, "I write poetry with far more ease than I do prose, and with far greater rapidity. In prose, I often stop and hesitate for a word,-in poetry, never. Poetry always carries me out of myself; I forget every thing in the world but the subject which has interested my imagination. It is the most subtle and insinuating of pleasures,-but, like all pleasures, it is dearly bought. It is always succeeded by extreme depression of spirits, and an overpowering sense of bodily fatigue. Mine has been a successful career; and I hope I am earnestly grateful for the encouragement I have received, and the friends I have made,—but my life has convinced me that a public career must be a painful one to a woman. The envy and the notoriety carry with them a bitterness which predominates over the praise." It has perhaps been her lot to encounter those best of friendsenemies on her path through an eventful life; but she has the affection, as well as the admiration, of many, and her own generous and ardent zeal in forwarding the interests of those she regards, has not always been met with indifference or ingratitude. Miss Landon has been nearly all her life a resident of London. Her poetry, therefore, dwells more upon human passions, desires, and enjoyments-the themes and persons that history has rendered sacred—the glorious chivalries of gone-by ages, and the ruins of nations, than upon the gentler topics, objects, and characters which those who live in the country cherish, venerate, and love. It is to be lamented, that her intimacy with Nature has been so limited and constrained, and that the scope of her genius has been therefore narrowed. The sources of her fame have, however, been numerous and productive: and her poems have obtained a popularity scarcely second to that of any British writer. She not only obtained a reputation—she has sustained it: it is acknowledged and appreciated wherever the English language is understood. When she quitted the less substantial topics in which her early youth delighted, for themes more worthy of the Muse, she proved the strength of her mind, as well as the richness of her fancy; and her latter productions are unquestionably her best. The extent of her labour is absolutely startling. A large proportion of her poems remain scattered through various periodical works ;-we believe, if collected, they would form a greater number of volumes than those already published ; and her writings in prose are records of her industry, no less than of her genius. LANDON. LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. COME back, come back together, By the haunted hours before! From the green leaves of the wild wood, For Red Riding Hood, the darling,- The fields were covered over Summer shed its shining store, She was happy as she pressed them She pluck'd them and caress'd them— They were so very sweet, They had never seemed so sweet before, To Red Riding Hood, the darling, The flower of fairy lore. How the heart of childhood dances Upon a sunny day! It has its own romances, And a wide, wide world have they! A world where phantasie is king, Do such pleasant fancies spring She seems like an ideal love, A younger sister for the heart; Like the woodland pheasant, With its rosy light. Never can the memory part With Red Riding Hood, the darling,— Did the painter, dreaming Winning it with eager eyes, On the unforgotten glories Of the infant sight? Giving us a sweet surprise |