Orbler
Byron Twain
Brenton
Dexter
Jeanne Dininni
Shilpa KarhikRevenge by Letitia Elizabeth London
June 16th 2006 03:14
This is a spiteful little poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon, a 19th century poet from Chelsea, London. My interpretation is that she was in love with a man who did not love her back but led her on and then betrayed her, and now that man is suffering the same treatment from another woman. I'm sure we've all engaged in this kind of schadenfreude, but perhaps not admitted it so openly as Letitia London!
REVENGE
by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1802 - 1838)
Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair,
And gaze upon her smile;
Seem as you drank the very air
Her breath perfumed the while;
And wake for her the gifted line,
That wild and witching lay,
And swear your heart is as a shrine,
That only holds her sway.
'Tis well: I am revenged at last;
Mark you that scornful cheek,
The eye averted as you pass'd,
Spoke more than words could speak.
Ay, now by all the bitter tears
That I have shed for thee,
The racking doubts, the burning fears,
Avenged they well may be
By the nights pass'd in sleepless care,
The days of endless woe;
All that you taught my heart to bear,
All that yourself will know.
I would not wish to see you laid
Within an early tomb;
I should forget how you betray'd,
And only weep your doom:
But this is fitting punishment,
To live and love in vain,
O my wrung heart, be thou content,
And feed upon his pain.
Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,
Thine own it will not be;
And bask beneath her sunny eye,
It will not turn on thee.
'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,
Far better hadst thou proved;
Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art nor beloved.
REVENGE
by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1802 - 1838)
Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair,
And gaze upon her smile;
Seem as you drank the very air
Her breath perfumed the while;
And wake for her the gifted line,
That wild and witching lay,
And swear your heart is as a shrine,
That only holds her sway.
'Tis well: I am revenged at last;
Mark you that scornful cheek,
The eye averted as you pass'd,
Spoke more than words could speak.
Ay, now by all the bitter tears
That I have shed for thee,
The racking doubts, the burning fears,
Avenged they well may be
By the nights pass'd in sleepless care,
The days of endless woe;
All that you taught my heart to bear,
All that yourself will know.
I would not wish to see you laid
Within an early tomb;
I should forget how you betray'd,
And only weep your doom:
But this is fitting punishment,
To live and love in vain,
O my wrung heart, be thou content,
And feed upon his pain.
Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,
Thine own it will not be;
And bask beneath her sunny eye,
It will not turn on thee.
'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,
Far better hadst thou proved;
Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art nor beloved.
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