The Poetical Works of Mary Robinson

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The poetical works of
the late Mrs. Mary Robinson
Mary Robinson
ld¥*/7,2c,j
HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY
THE BEQUEST OF
EVERT JANSEN WENDELL
CLASS OF 1882
OF NEW YORK
1918
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KNOM rm; P1CTRK BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS
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THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF THE LATE
MRS. MARY ROBINSON:
INCLUDING
THE PIECES LAST PUBLISHED.
THE THREE VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONE.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY JONES & COMPANY,
3, ACTON PLACE, KINGSLAND ROAD.
1824.
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HARVARJ) t(\ ;GE l/BRARY
Mr*
THE ItrilEST Of
EVERT Mf ItN WtNOELL
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PREFACE.
Ik an age when no publication can be presented
to the world, unembellished by a life of the
author, however trite and recent that life may
be, it is to be hoped that compliance with the
fashion of the times will exonerate the editor
from the intention of uttering a twice told tale.
The prinoipal, and, in some estimations, per-
haps the most interesting events of the Author's
days have already been given from her own me-
moirs, yet it may be no unreasonable supposi-
tion, that this brief account which accompanies
the most excellent part of her character may be
justly appreciated when the mere annals of a
beautiful woman are no more remembered.
Mrs. Robinson is descended from a respectable
and ancient Irish family. Her father, Mr.
Darby, was nephew of the celebrated American,
Dr. Franklin, by the marriage of Miss Hester
Franklin with the grandfather of Mrs. Robin-
son.
Mr. Darby lived at Bristol at the period of
the author's birth, and filled the situation of one
of the most respectable merchants in that city,
in partnership with the house of Miller and
Elton. With the restless spirit of research which
but too universally characterized his undertak-
ings, he lost that fortune, in promoting a scheme
for the commercial advantage of his country, by
the proposal of a whale fishery, since brought to
perfection at Newfoundland, which would have
been better employed in securing independence
to his infant family. Disgusted with the frowns
of former friends, and the triumphs of his more
prudent commercial brethren, he accepted the
command of a seventy-four gun ship in the Rus-
sian service, and died in December, 1785, uni-
versally esteemed by his brother officers, particu-
larly by his friend admiral Greig, at whose im-
mediate request he entered the service of, the
empress. His widow, who resided with Mrs.
Robinson till the moment of her death, was
grand-daughter of Catharine Seys of Bo^erton
Castle in Glamorganshire, whose sister, Ann
Seys, married lord King, then high chancellor
of England, of whom see an account in Collins's
peerage. Mrs. Robinson received the first rudi-
ments of her education at Bristol, where she
gave many striking specimens of future genius,
by an early and astonishing admiration of let-
ters, of which poetry seemed her favourite li-
terature. At six years of age she could write
with a feeling far beyond her years, and a degree
of propriety which never could have been in-
stilled into her young imagination by the sing-
song exercises of a country school, had not the
dawn of poetical inspiration, which has since
burst forth with so much splendour, already be-
gun to display its influence over the mind of the
infant poet.
At ten years of age Mrs. Robinson was re-
moved to a respectable school near London. At
the early age of fifteen and three months she
married Mr. Robinson, brother of the late com-
modore Robinson, in the service of the East In-
dia company. This gentleman was then a stu-
dent in Lincoln's Inn. This hasty match, of
which love was the only basis, was, as may be
supposed, attended by no great share of fortune's
smiles.
Shortly after Mrs. Robinson's marriage her
misfortunes commenced, as her family augment-
ed, and the independence of her mind soon de-
termined her to seek, within the capabilities of
her own talents, to support herself and infant
family. With this intention, after having un-
dergone a variety of vicissitudes, she made her
first appearance on the stage, under the imme-
diate patronage of the dutchess of Devonshire,
and the acknowledged pupil of the immortal
Garrick. For three years she continued at
Drury-Lane theatre, performing all the princi-
pal parts of tragedy and sentimental comedy.
At this, perhaps most unfortunate moment of
her destiny, it was her fate to attract the atten-
tion of a distinguished personage, whose unceas-
ing importunities obliged her, with reluctance,
to quit a profession, by which she might have
secured, to her latest hour, both independence
and admiration.
In the spring of 1783 our poet was attacked
with a violent and dangerous fever, occasioned
by travelling all night in a damp post-chaise, to
do an office of pecuniary friendship, for one who
has since repaid her with neglect and ingratitude.
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PREFACE.
The langour which remained on the abatement
of the disease terminated in a rheumatic fever,
which, at the age of twenty-three, in the pride
of youth and the bloom of beauty, reduced the
frame of this lovely and unfortunate woman to
the feebleness of an infant, which obliged her to
be carried in the arms of her attendants to the
last moment of her life.
About the period above mentioned Mrs. Rob-
inson quitted England, in order to try the baths
of Aix la Chapelle ; from thence she removed to
Paris, for the purpose of procuring better medi-
cal advice ; every effort of the healing art having
proved ineffectual, our poet once more resolved
to return to her native home, and, by the exer-
cise of mental acquirements, endeavour to alle-
viate the calamity of an agonizing and'incurable
disease.
To the muse, as the only solace to a mind of
exquisite sensibility, blended with more than
female fortitude, did this lovely and unfortunate
being retire for consolation. The strain of
plaintive tenderness which pervades her earlier
productions fully exemplified the impressions of
an afflicted mind, striving to wander from it-
self; and, in the mazes of fiction, lose for a time
the melancholy objects which fate had so early
presented before her.
In the year 1790, Mrs. Robinson produced
her first prose work, entitled " Vancenza, or
the Dangers of Credulity." The small degree of
fame she had already acquired by a few poetical
works, which from time to time had found their
way into the newspapers, naturally increased
the demand for this new proof of Mi's. Robin-
eon's talents.
Thf whole edition of Vancenza was sold in
one day. The work has since gone through five
editions.
Shortly after this publication Mrs. Robinson,
at the earnest request of her literary friends,
amongst whom may be particularly classed the
late Sir Joshua Reynolds and Edmund Burke,
consented to publish the poems she had written,
at intervals of pain, by subscription; a most
splendid list, collected in sixteen weeks, fully
exemplified the estimation in which her talents
were held by this country, and by the splendid
proofs of approbation which accompanied her
subscribers' letters, Mrs. Robinson may be just-
ly said to " have brought golden opinions from
all sorts of people."
In the same year the death of our immortal
Reynolds afforded a mournful, yet pleasing op-
portunity to our poet, of uniting her talents
with the more interesting feelings of affectionate
regret. The monody to the memory of one of
the earliest admirers of her muse was dedicated
to the members of the Royal Academy.
About 1794, Mrs. Robinson brought out a
small novel, in two volumes, entitled " The
Widow.*' This work is certainly by no means
equal to those which she has since published.
To The Widow may be added Mrs. Robin-
son's prose publications of " Angelina," a novel,
" Hubert de Sevrac," a romance, " Walsing-
ham," " The False Friend*" and " The Natural
Daughter," any of which might have done in-
finite credit to an author who had not so materi-
ally excelled in a far superior branch of literature.
In the autumn of 1795, Mrs. Robinson finish-
ed her tragedy of " The Sicilian Lover," and
presented it for representation. This, more
properly named, -blank verse dramatic poem,
having been laid by, in that pandemonium of
genius and dulness, the prompter's closet, for
several months, was returned with a promise of
representation early in the next season, but not
before one of the 'most striking situations had
been pilfered for another tragedy, which appear-
ed shortly after. Disgusted with the delay, and
universal negative which, for some unknown
cause, she ever experienced from managers, she
resolved to print the tragedy, and leave its mer-
its and defects to the decision of the public
Mrs. Robinson continued thus growing in
literary fame till the moment of her decease.
At length her declining health becoming daily
more visible and alarming, our poet retired to a
cottage belonging to her daughter, near Wind-
sor, where, after three months' lingering agony,
which she endured with that strength of forti-
tude that had marked every action of her life,
she expired.
Mrs. Robinson is, by her own express desire,
interred in Old Windsor Church- Yard.
Of Mrs. Robinson's general character, it can
only be added that she possessed a sensibility of
heart and tenderness of mind which very fre-
quently led her to form hasty decisions, while
more mature deliberation would have tended to
promote her interest and worldly comfort ; she
was liberal even to a fault ; and many of the
leading traits of her life will most fully evince,
that she was the most disinterested of human
beings. As to her literary character, the fol-
lowing pages, it may be presumed, will form a
sufficient testimony.
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TRIBUTARY POEMS.
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY THE LATE GENERAL BURGOYNE,
Author af The Heir est, a Comedy, fa. fa. fa.
Laura !* when from thy beauteous eyes,
The tear of tender anguish flows ;
Such magic in thy sorrow lies,
That ev'ry bosom shares thy woes.
When on thy lovely perfect face,
The sportive dimpled smile we see ;
With eager hope the cause we trace,
And wish to share the bliss with thee.
For in thine highly gifted mind,
Superior charms so sweetly blend;
In each such gentle grace we find,
That Envy must thy worth commend.
Oh ! who could gaze upon that lip,
That coral lip of brightest hue ;
Nor wish the honied balm to sip,
More fresh, more sweet, than morning dew?
But when thy true poetic lays,
Pierce to the heart's remotest cell ;
We feel the conscious innate praise,
Which feeble language fails to tell.
So melting is thy lute's soft tone,
Each breast unused to feel desire,
Confesses bless before unknown,
And kindles at the sacred fire.
So chaste, so eloquent thy song,
So true each precept it conveys,
That e'en the sage shall teach the young
To take their lesson from thy lays.
• Mrs. Robinson's most distinguished Poems ap-
peared in the periodical prints of the day, under the
fictitious signatures of Laura, Laura-Maria, Julia,
Daphne, Oberon, Echo, and Louisa.
And when thy pen's delightful art
Paints with soft touch Love's tender flame ;
Thy verse so melts and mends the heart,
That, taught by thee, we prize his name.
Or, when in plaintive melody,
Thou mourn'st the friend thy soul held dear ;
Charm' d by thy power, we join with thee,
And weep in sadness o'er his bier.
Sweet mistress of each yielding heart !
Accept the verse to genius due ;
No flattery can that bard impart
Who dares address his vows to you.
February 1, 1T01.
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY JAMES BOADEN, Esq.
Author qfFontainvUU Forest, The Secret Tribunal, The Fruits qf
Faction, a Poem, fa.
" But Laura still shall dress the lay,
In all the lustre of the day,
With such sweet penaiveness complain,
That mortals are in love with pain ;
And while the tender notes they scan,
Scarce see the writer is a man."
Laura !* the lightnings of thy scorn
That pierced the timid breast of morn, t
Borne through the vap'ry fields of air,
Struck, and roused me to a tear.
It fell, for who unmoved could be
When the muse sings, and sings by thee ?
* This little poem was occasioned by a most ma-
lignant and unwomanly attack on the authenticity of
Mrs. Robinson's productions, by a sister poet, whose
name we forbear to mention.
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TRIBUTARY POEMS.
What wretch, by every muse dlsclalm'd,
Can speak of Terse when thou art named,
And not as liberal as the day,
% Pour forth the pssan of thy lay ?
Does it not fall like fleecy snow
Upon the bright'ning plain below ?
Is it not mild as the blest morn,
That empties Amalthssa's horn?
Sure in some niggard barren soil
Of vexing stubbornness and toil,
With scanty sustenance scarce fed,
This rude barbarian must be bred,
Whose soul its tribute can refuse,
To heavenly beauty and the muse !
But thou, pursue thy radiant way,
Cheer'd by thy own meridian ray ;
Around thee let the beams be hurl'd,
That shed a lustre on our world.
Blest, that the flashes of thy fire,
That souls congenial best admire :
The beamy splendours that they give,
No fool can bear to see, and live.
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY THE LATE ROBERT MERRY, Esq.
Member of thtAtademsdeUaCrustattFlor tms.
Blest daughter of gentleness ! child of the muse !
Restrain the sweet lay, that so meltingly flows,
Though its breathings a transport diviner
diffuse
Than the nightingale's prayer for the kiss of
the rose !
Yet, alas ! there is anguish and danger to hear ; —
The spells of the fatal enchanter I prove,
His magic dominion in thee I revere,
For I know thou art beauty, and feel thou
art love I
I feel that thy charms can enrapture the view,
Thy thought so expansive, so richly refined,
Has power to disorder, has force to subdue—
And I die in adoring thy heart and thy mind.
Yet though the rich tribute of merit and fame
From taste and discernment thou ever must
share,
Pale Folly and Rancour shall fix on thy name,
And Envy, distracted, be turned to Despair !
When the eagle majestically sails through the
sky,
The owl and the raven are shock'd at the sight,
To the caverns of darkness in anguish they fly,
And curse with dismay the bold bird of the
light.
Then, daughter of Gentleness, child of the *
Muse! '**
By Pity the wretches' resentment control, *
| Let the dull and the dastard aspire to abuse, ]
! Be it mine, thou sWeet Minstrel ! to give thee (
I my soul. >
TO*MRS. ROBINSON,
BY THE REV. WILLIAM TASKER,
Tr ans l at or of the Classics, and Author of ** Ardragut," a tragedy,
When Sappho, from the lofty steep
O'erwhelmed with dire despair,
Plunged headlong in the foaming deep,
To end her hopeless care,
Venus, who saw the tuneful maid
Bend o'er the yawning Wave,
Sent her own son, the nymph to aid-
He came too late to save !
But as her trembling spirit rose,
To seek its calm abode,
Venus in pity to her woes,
This gentle boon bestow'd :
t( No more the victim of despair
Shall Sappho's spirit rove,
But on the earth, divinely fair,
Claim every gazer's love !"
And see ! the wondrous nymph appears !
More tuneful, more divine ;
She brings new music from the spheres,
And her blest lyre is thine !
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY THE HONOURABLE JOHN ST. JOHN,
Author of" Mary quttn of Scots," an historical Tragedy, " Tht Island
qf8t. Marguerite,* an Opera, #c. fa. fo
Congenial spirits own congenial fires,
Where vivid fancy every thought inspires ;
The taste of Reynolds we behold again
In every beauty of thy mournful strain.
No envy dims the lustre of thy lays,
No mean disguise obscures thy generous praise ;
But as the tuneful line mellifluous flows,
Thy genius kindles, and thy fancy glows .'
Still, still pursue the lesson truth inspires,
Still tune thy harp, amidst exulting fires.
And when thy gentle form in death is laid,
And all thy wondrous attributes shall fade.
The grateful tributary song of woe,
Transcendent Sappho! round thy tomb shall flow.
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TRIBUTARY POX2M9.
There MWdlaton'a* meek shade shall hover near.
There Garrlck'sf sainted spirit shall appear,
There beauteous Linley \ raise her angel tongue,
And Chatterton § shall .strike his lyre new
strung !
And 'midst the mingling sounds thy name shall
rise
The brightest planet in its " native skies. "
IMPROMPTU ||
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY HIS GRACE THE LATE DUKE OF LEEDS.
When sensibility and truth unite
To give thy thought with sweet poetic art,
'Tie genuine nature dictates what you write,
And every line's a transcript of your heart !
'Tis grace, and feeling, polish' d by the muse,
To claim applause, and charm the wond'ring
throng!
Then who the sacred laurel shall refuse
To her whom nature hails the queen of song. 5
SONNET
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY THE REV. DR. PAUL COLOMBINE,
OP NORWICH.
On reading her Legitimate Sonnets,
What voice attuned to the soft Lesbian lute
Breathes in this rugged clime such accents
clear?
What British Sappho warbles thro' the year,
* Vide Mrs. Robinson's elegy to Lady Middle ton.
t Elegy to Garrick. $ Sonnet to Maria Linley.
$• Monody to Chatterton.
| This poem was given to The Honourable John
8t John in Mrs. Robinson's Memoirs, tlirough a mis-
take of the copyist.
T The abore little complimentary jeu d'esprit was
sent to Mrs. Robinson inclosed in the following Tory
flattering letter from its noble and classical author.
" Madam,
* Permit me to thank you for the favour yon con.
ferred on me, by sending.me your tragedy. I trust
you will not deem me guilty of flattery when I as-
sure you that few productions of the present poetical
age have afforded me more pleasure, than the perusal
of the second act ; the scene between Honoria and
her father is rery well managed, and capable of
much effect ; as is the scene with the banditti in the
third.
" I imagine many will unite with me in observing
When every grove in Greece Is lorn and mute ?
The Muses and the Graces held dispute,
Which at her birth the blooming babe should
rear
Their blended gifts in her so bright appear.
Who would not strive to press the tender suit.
To win the beauteous prize ? where'er she moves,
Whene'er she speaks, she fascinates each eye
And winds around each heart ; the tender loves,
With genius, taste, and varied harmony,
So breathe in her soft lay, hoar age approves,
While youth, fond youth, dissolves in ecstacy.
SONNET
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY JOHN TAYLOR, Esq.
Thivk not thy numbers Sappho's woes declare,
And all her fervid passion's fond excess,
Though thy rapt Muse's glowing strains ex-
press
Of "five's sad victims each romantic care,
Warning weak hearts to shun the roseate snare ;
Though Phoebus deigns thy towering flights
to bless,
And all his sons thy nobler powers confess
That o'er their highest aims sublimely dare.
No, Laura, thus pre-eminently taught,
Mellifluous warblings of the heavenly train,
With poesy '8 delightful magic fraught,
Yet other notes reveal'd the Lesbian's pain ;
For, ah ! had Sappho's Muse such accents caught,
The faithless youth she had not lov'd in vain.
SONNET
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY JOHN TAYLOR, Esq.
Hail, pensive songstress ! whose enchanting lay
So sweetly soothes the sadden'd soul to rest ;
Pathetic sovereign of the tender breast !
Gentle as eve, and lustrous as the day.
how much your continuing to persevere in this spe-
cies of composition would increase your profit, and
enhance your poetical reputation; which has al-
ready much signalised itself in the rich field of Eng
lish literature.
" I have the honour to remain,
" Madam, &c. &c.
St. James's Square, (Signed) " LEEDS."
Friday Morning.
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TRIBUTARY POEMS.
Whether to plaintive grove thy fancy lead,
To hermit's cave, or mountain's trembling
height,
The battle's sanguine plain, the peaceful mead,
Still the fond Muse attends thy fervid flight.
Description yields her pencil to thy hand,
That pencil fraught with every varying dye,
A new creation springs at thy command,
And brighter beauties catch the ravish'd eye.
Ah! since o'er other hearts so potent known,
Why sadly sink the victim of thy own?
Then, Laura, quick these emblems take,
And wear them for the giver's sake.
IMPROMPTU.
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY JOHN TAYLOR, Esq.
On receiving her Poems.
Ah ! fair, dearest Laura, my thanks would 1
pay,
For the treasures of genius thy friendship be-
stows;
How poor are all thanks to the worth of thy lay,
Where the rich ore of poesy lavishly flows.
To praise that rich ore too were equally vain ;
What Muse, but thy own, can its value im-
part?
Yet, when grateful simplicity offers the strain,
'Tis the only reward that is dear to thy heart.
Then take, dearest Laura, the tribute sincere.
From a friend who admired thee in life's early
hour ;
Who beheld in thy bloom, the sweet promise
appear,
That time has matured to so lovely a flower.
Jan. 9, 1704.
BOUQUET
FOR MRS. ROBINSON,
AN IMPROMPTU,
BY THK LATK
RICHARD TICKEL, Esq.
Written a few months only previous to his death.
The rose is like thy glowing cheek,
When deck'd with tears of pity meek.
The lily, like thy spotless breast,
By love's delicious pinions prest.
The blue bell like thy azure eyes,
Where Cupid's wand' ring arrow lies !
The violet like the veins that twine
Along thy oval front divine !
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY THE SAME.
As Lesbos Sappho boasted first in fame !
So, peerless muse ! thy verse adorns our shore ;
So future bards shall celebrate thy name,
E'en till this little isle shall be no more !
Then mock the venal titles of a day,
Nor mourn of worldly gifts— a niggard store ;
Thy genius shines with such a vivid ray,
As makes the gems of fortune dimly poor !
For when, in shrouded dust, the dull and vain
Shall moulder, lost, forgotten, or unknown,
The pensive eye shall pour upon thy strain,
And thy illustrious talents proudly own !
Then smile, and know thyself supremely great,
And leave to little souls the pomp of little state !
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BY ROBERT MERRY, Esq.
Member of the Academe Delia Crusca at Florence.
Sweet is the calmly cheerful hour,
When from mute midnight's ebon tower
The moon escapes, and sportive hies
O'er the gay garden of the skies ;
Where nature's noblest flowers unfold
Their starry buds of burning gold ;
The weary winds pant on the deep,
Or 'mongst the cradling billows sleep ;
The streams their lucid lakes display ;
The forests shake their sighs away ;
Soft lustre every shade pursues,
That darkly drinks the falling dews ;
While odour from her silken wings
An aromatic ether flings.
All is delight ! but, ah ! in vain
These varying glories bless the plain ;
For see, the frenzied lover speeds
From the bright groves and glittering meads,
From gaudy hills, enchanted bowers,
And flowing waves and summer showers ;
And seeks the lowly pensive cave,
Where he may groan, and weep, and rave ;
And wrap his thoughts in sablest gloom,
And lure a transport from the tomb ;
Where he may hope to rest at last,
When Passion' 8 rending pangs are past.
But e'en if then he chance to hear
The warbling of the bird sincere,
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rnXBBTAB* POEMS.
Who lo*» her secret pangs to throw
In all the melodies of wo,
His heart relents, his trembling lid,
In pity's lucid veil is hid ;
Subjected agonies depart,
And softening sorrow soothes his heart.
So I, dear Laura ! long supprest
The thorn of anguish in my breast ;
Lost to each social solace gay,
And heedless of the blooms of May ;
And heedless of the haughty sun,
When to his mad meridian run,
He lifts his red refulgent shield,
And fires the heaven's eternal field.
Yes, I from each allurement fled
To where incumbent darkness spread ;
Trod the black torrent*! gloomy side,
And held fierce converse with the tide.
Ah ! then thy numbers seized my soul,
I found the thrilling sadness roll
In sweet similitude of joy,
That might my direst griefs destroy :
They stole upon my tranced sense,
As the fresh gales of morn dispense
New life to every shrub that fades
In solitude's neglected shades.
Transcendent Laura ! now receive
The tribute gratitude shall give ;
Due to thy verse, whose sainted glow
Bade my lost soul renounce its wo :
Then frown not on my daring lay
That strives to paint the golden day j
To tell the lustre of the rose,
And thy resistless charms disclose ;
But think, when in the grave's cold sleep
My wretched eyes shall cease to weep,
And, troubled by the wintry breeze,
This sad, this burning heart shall freeze,
Then shall my lingering verse declare
How much I prized the good and fair !
What tenderness my soul conceived,
How deeply for thy sufferings grieved,
While future poets, future ages join,
To pour in Laura's praise their melodies di-
vine.
TO MRS. ROBINSON.
This Sonnet appeared in the Oracle, 15th of
October, 1798.
Signed " 11 tnanti timido."
Ik dreary midnight's lonely hour,
When wretched lovers only wake,
Ten thousand tears fast dropping pour
And bathe this bosom for thy sake.
When morning's misty eye uncloses,
And gives the world another day,
For thee (more sweet than vernal roses)
Ten thousand sighs are breathed away.
But he whose scalding tears are flowing,
Whose aching breast heaves many a sigh,
Whose soul with fondest love is glowing,
Must hide his heart's fir* wish, and die !
TO MRS. ROBINSON,
ON HSU VISITING BATH IN ILL HEALTH.
BY JAMES BOADEN, Esq.
Maria from the busy circle flies,
To breathe the purer bliss of brighter skies,
Forsakes die scenes of her expanding feme,
To renovate the anguish of her frame >
Mentally perfect, her enlighten'd mind,
Superior to disease, springs unconfined ;
Ranges the regions of the Muse's reign,
Exempt from our inheritance of pain ;
And, while keen pangs oppress her lovely lace,
Wings the pure ether of poetic space ;.
Floats in the fragrance of the rubied rose,
And shuts its bosom up in rich repose f
So may these lines possess the placid power/
To soothe thy sufferings in some torturing
hour*
June, 170!.
TO MRS. ROBINSON.
SJT THB LATB
ROBERT OLIPHANT, Esq.
dart Ball, Cambridgt.
Admired and lovely as the Paphian maid, '
Bright beauty *8 model, love's bewitching
form,
Ah ! gentle Laura, thus in smiles array'd,
My flinty heart to tender hopes can i
Unpitied must he grieve who loves thee so?
Say, must he steal subdued from every eye ?
Ah ! if condemn'd to bear this load of wo,
Say but " Despair," and bid thy victim die.
Some pity then will from thy lips depart,
Some comfort visit him who loves but thee,
Who feels thy beauty wind about his heart,
And struggling pants for death to set aim
free;
Yet if thy cruel heart refuse to save,
I only ask one tear to glisten on my grave.
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10
TRIBUTARY POEMS;
LINES
ADDRESSED TO MRS. ROBINSON,
BT THE LATE
JOHN HENDERSON, Esq.
On reading a little Welsh ballad written by Mrs.
Robinson, entitled " Lewin and Gynniethe."
Thou pride of a nation where genius is bless'd,
Where the muse smiles, by fancy and eloquence
dress'd, [mind
Sweet minstrel, whose plaintive and elegant
Is the temple of wit and of pity combined.
Oh ! ne'er let the pen sleep in silence whose lays
Claim the young budding laurel, a nation's just
praise;
Exert thy soft skill, and from Phoebus receive
That wealth which the god shall to excellence
give.
1783.
A STRANGER MINSTREL.
BY S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq.
Written a few weeks before her death.
As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine,
Midway th' ascent, in that repose divine,
When the soul, centred in the heart's recess,
Hath quaffed its fill of nature's loveliness,
Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay,
And fain would thirst again, again to quaff ;
Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way,
Fills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh,
In that sweet mood of sad and humorous
thought,
A form within me rose, within me wrought
With such strong magic, that I cried aloud,
Thou ancient Skiddaw ! by thy helm of cloud,
And by thy many-colour'd chasms deep,
And by their shadows, that for ever sleep,
By yon small flaky mists that love to creep
Along the edges of those spots of light,
Those sunny islands on thy smooth green height,
And, by yon shepherds with their sheep,
And dogs, and boys, a gladsome crowd,
That rush e'en now yrith clamour loud
Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud,
And by this laugh, and by this tear,
I would, old Skiddaw, she were here.
A lady of sweet song is she,
Her soft blue eye was made for thee !
O ! ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,
I would, I would, that she were here !
Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud,
In sullen majesty replying,
Thus spake from out his helm of cloud,
(His voice was like an echo dying !)
" She dwells belike in scenes more fair
And scorns a mount so bleak and bare."
I only sigh'd when this I heard,
Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd,
That all my heart was faint and weak,
So sorely was I troubled !
No laughter wrinkled on my cheek,
But, oh ! the tears were doubled !
But ancient Skiddaw green and high,
Heard, and understood my sigh ;
And new, In tones less stern and rude,
As if be wish'd to end the feud,
Spake he, the proud response renewing :
(His voice was like a monarch wooing.)
" Nay, but thou dost not know her might,
The pinions of her soul, how strong !
But many a stranger in my height
Hath sung to me her magic song,
Sending forth his ecstacy
In her divinest melody,
And hence I know, her soul is free,
She is, where'er she wills to be,
Unfetter'd by mortality !
Now, to ' the haunted beach' can fly,
Beside the threshold scourged with waves,
Now where the maniac wildly raves,
Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky !
No wind that hurries o'er my height
Can travel with so swift a flight.
I too, methinks, might merit
The presence of her spirit !
To me too might belong
The honour of her song and witching melody !
Which most resembles me.
Soft, various, and sublime,
Exempt from wrongs of time !"
JThus spake the mighty mount ! and I
Made answer, with a deep drawn sigh,
Thou ancient Skiddaw ! by this tear,
I would, I would, that she were here !
November, 1800.
IMPROMPTU
ON MRS. ROBINSON
Being present at the performance of the Merchant
of Venice at Covent Garden.
BY THE LATE JOHN HENDERSON, Esq.
Whilst Macklin Shakspeare's Shylock holds to
view,
See beauteous Robinson out-act the Jew;
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TRIBUTARY POEMS.
11
One pound of flesh his malice could assuage,
Her Christian charms severer bonds engage;
When love-inspiring eyes their darts dispense,
Who meets the glance must expiate th' offence ;
In vain applause would pay the debt in part,
She claims the sacrifice of every heart.
November Oth, 1780.
J. H.
TO MRS. ROBINSON.
BY THE REVEREND B. BERESFORD.
Full many a conflict hath my bosom proved,
To chase thy image from its dwelling there ;
Full many a sorrow, many a tender care,
For thy dear sake I've suffer'd, best beloved ;
For, since thy beauties did my heart invade,
Oft have I strove my liberty to gain ;
Oft, in soft solace to my am'rous pain,
For balm, to heal the wounds which love hap
made,
I court the muses; to assuage my grief
Court sage philosophy ; for vain relief,
In quest of joy, I rove from fair to fair ;
Vain other charms, and vain philosophy !
My vagrant heart must still return to thee,
And one dear smile is worth an age of care !
LI NES
ADDRESSED TO MRS. ROBINSON.
Written by the Author of " Hartford Bridge"
4c. Sffi. in 1780.*
Tub seaman, from winds and the fury of seas,
Each harbour will bless where he anchors at
ease;
Yet with fonder regard will he eye the wish'd
strand
Where his vessel is destined and cargo must land.
—So I, dear Maria, on life's ocean tost,
When I cannot »keep sea, veer about for the
coast,
• It is a singular fact, that this Author was un-
known to Mrs. Robinson for some years after the
above elegant lines were written.
And praise every harbour where shelter is found ;
But thou art the port where my wishes are
bound.
Those wishes accept, and abhorr'd may I be,
If I e'er fram'd a wish that meant evil to thee !
While, restless, from region to region I roam,
My heart, still untraveU'd, seeks thee for its
home.
Oh! yield it abode! and, believe me, my fair,
Of this breast thou art tenant, none else har-
bours there ;
There, sweet star of beauty, thy dear Image
dwells,
Wings the fond pulse of passion, the sigh ever
swells,
Gives a tide to the current that bathes the warm
heart,
Till, grown to the soul, it becomes e'en a part!
Then yield it abode. Bow, ye monks, and be
blest,
The Heaven I crave is a place in her breast ;
And say, breathes a monk who'd in secret re-
prove
A devotion so true to the altar of love'
Beshrew the cold beiog whom, rigid and fell,
Nature forms a recluse and devotes to a cell.
Let him melt o'er his relics, at beauty congeal,
And saints praise his apathy, idiots his zeal
With love in my heart, and with thee in my
eye,
What zeal can divinity equal supply ?
TO THE
MEMORY OF MRS. ROBINSON.
BY DR. WOLCOT.
Farewell to the nymph of my heart,
Farewell to the cottage and vine,
From thy scenes with a tear I depart,
Where pleasure so often was mine.
Remembrance shall dwell on thy smile,
Shall dwell on thy lute and thy song,
Which Often my hours to beguile
Have echo'd the valleys among.
Once more the fair scene let me view,
The cottage, the valley, and grove-
Dear valleys, for ever adieu !
Adieu to the daughter of love !
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ADVERTISEMENT.
The Reader is requested to observe* that the Poetry Is newly arranged, and that those pieces
which composed the first publication are distributed through this volume, according to the different
classes of Poetry.
M. ROBINSON.
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POEMS.
PETRARCH TO LAURA/
Sipposed to hare been written doing bis retirement
«t Vancluse, a abort time before his death.
Ye sylvan haunts, ye close embowering shades,
That hang your dark brows o'er the silent glades;
Ye mountains, black'ning wide the thorny vale ;
Ye lacid lakes, that trembling meet the gale ;
Ye gloomy avenues of dumb despair,
Ve last asylums of long<-oherish'd care ;
Eternal solitudes ! where Love retires
To bathe bis wounds, and quench hie fatal fires ;
Where frantic;, lost, forlorn, and sad, I go*
A wandering pilgrim in a maze of wo ;
Ohi to your deepest caverns let me fly,
Breathe a fond prayer, and 'midst your horrors
die.
Ye sparry grots, ye once adored retreats,
Ye tinkling rills, ye consecrated seats,
Whose velvet sod, embroider'd o'er with flowers,
On the charm'd sense celestial odour pours ;
Ye roseate banks o'erhung with waving trees,
That moan responsive to the murmuring breeze,
How cold, how desolate your shade appears,
A path of misery, through a vale of tears !
Now pale Despair bangs brooding o'er your
bowers, [flowers;
Absorbs your sweets, and withers all your
Strips the thick foliage from your verdant shades,
And spreads eternal darkness o'er your glades ;
No mare for me your sunny banks shall pour
In purple tides ripe Autumn's luscious store ;
No more for me your lustrous tints shall glow,
Your forests wave, your silvery torrents flow;
Yet 'midst your heaven my wounded heart shall
crave
One narrow cell, my solace and my grave.
Subdued, o'erwhehn'd, a withering shade I
stray,
Shrink from myself, and shudder at the day :
No more fond Hope sustains my sickening soul,
Resistless passion spurns her meek control ;
Corroding anguish o'er each prospect lowers,
Bends my weak frame, my lusty youth devours ;
Clings to my breast where every fibre bleeds,
And on its vital throne insatiate feeds.
Where shall I fly ? what path untrod explore,
Where love can wound, and memory live no
more;
Where, Laura, shall I turn, what balsam find
To soothe the tbrobbings of my feverish mind?
What blest relief can life's dull round impart,
What rapture vivify the hopeless heart ?
What pitying star its beamy stream dispense,
To light my soul, and cheer my vagrant sense ;
To gild the gloom of desolating woes,
And lead my wandering spirit to repose ?
When wild with passion, maddening with
remorse,
From Avignon's loved walls I bent my course ;
While, roll'd in crimson clouds, the orb of day
O'er seas of ether shed his parting ray,
As to his western goal he joumey'd forth,
Leaving pale twilight weeping o'er the earth,
Oft did I pause, oft turn my longing eyes
To the tall spire that pierqed the evening skies ;
All was serene ! save when the vespers' sound
Struck on my pensive heart with knell profound ;
While Fancy bade my frantic mind explore
Those scenes of holy joy I taste no more ;
Unsullied altars, consecrated shrines,
Where curling incense round each taper twines ;
Where, through long aisles, seraphic Pseans ring,
And meek-eyed virgins choral anthems sing !
Where, like a being of celestial mould,'
My Laura's beauteous TormT dared behold !*
While at the shrine her orisons she pour'd
Pure as the spirit of the saint adored I
• " Petrarch first beheld Laura at matins on the
sixth day of April, 1327, in the church of St. Clair at
Avignon."
See Mrs. Dobson's Life of Petrarefc,
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14
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Oft as the cross her snowy fingers press'd,
Her auburn tresses vell'd her tranquil breast !
A shade transparent deck'd her brow divine.
And bade her eyes with temper'd lustre shine !
As low she bow'd before the throne of grace,
An angel-softness harmonized her face ;
A smile benign reveal'd her tranquil soul,
While from her lips devotion's fervour stole;
Each conscious triumph to her share was given,
Her form was beauty, and her mind was heaven.
Fix'd to the earth, with trembling zeal I
gazed.
Each passion madden* d, and each sense amazed !
Involuntary sighs too soon confessed
The struggling tumults labouring in my breast ;
No thought sublime on my rapt feelings hung,
No sacred eloquence unchain'd my tongue ;
All, all was love ! while through my burning
brain
Rush'd a fierce torrent of convulsive pain ;
From my dim eyes celestial radiance stole,
While howling demons grasp'd my sinking soul,
Guilt's writhing scorpions, twining round my
heart,
Enflamed each wound and heightened every
smart ;
In vain I sought Religion's calm domain,
And at her footstool pour'd my hopeless pain ;
The priestess, frowning on my impious prayer,
Check'd the bold suit, and hurl'd me to despair.
Ah, Laura ! canst thou seal the dread decree
That tears thy Petrarch from his God and thee !
That gives his mental hopes, his fond desires
To conscious anguish and consuming fires?
Canst thou with unrelenting vengeance urge
A trembling soul to fate's extremest verge ;
And, while subdued it supplicates relief,
Dash the doom'd sufferer to eternal grief?
Why, soft enchantress, spread the fatal snare
That lures thy struggling victim to despair ?
Why with meek smiles my wandering sense
reclaim?
Why feed with pitying looks my hopeless flame ?•
Ah? rather come in awful lustre drest,
Calm my touch'd sense, and lull the fiends to
rest;
Teach me each rebel passion to disown,
Chill my hot pulse, and freeze my heart to stone :
• " Laura wished to be beloved by Petrarch, bat
with such refinement, that he should never speak of
his love : whenever he attempted the most distant
expression of this kind, she treated him with exces-
sive rigour ; but when she saw him in despair, his
countenance languishing, and his spirits drooping,
•he then re-animated him by some trifling kind-
ness."— See Mrs. Dobson's Life of Petrarch, vol. i.
p.«.;
With contrite sighs devotion's flame illume ;
With holy tear-drops gem this mental gloom ;
Come in transcendent Virtue's sacred form,
Stem the fierce torrent, and appease the storm ;
Grasp the dire bolt suspended o'er my head,
And on my quivering heart-strings patience
shed ;
Check with thy counsels every madd'ning flight,
Direct me trembling to the paths of light ;
Bow my parch'd lip to kiss the chast'ning rod,
And lead me, blushing, to the throne of God !
Where'er I fly, where'er my frenzy roves,
To pine-clad summits or low-bending groves,'
Still on my shatter'd brain thy form appears,
Steals to my heart, and glistens through my
tears:
Thy voice I hear in every whispering gale,
Thy fragrant breath from citron buds inhale ;
I mark the rose in native sweetness drest,
I snatch the blushing emblem to my breast ;
Thy burnish'd ringlets float across my sight,
In the last glowing stream of orient light ;
And as the star of morn unfolds its fire,
Stolen from the glances of its burning sire,
Thy beaming eyes emit translucent rays,
The lustrous heralds of thy soul's rich blaze !
A matron's purity thy smiles impart,
And Truth's mild splendours brighten in thy
heart ; [dare
Ah ! wherefore, Petrarch, wherefore rashly
The dangerous magic of a form so Cur ?
Why was to thee the fatal moment given
Which bade an angel draw thy soul from
heaven?
Yet ere thy power supreme my soul confessed,
Ere fainting Virtue fled my burning breast ;
While in its veins one lingering spark remain'd,
One heavenly spark by trembling hope sustain'd ;
Vaucluse, thy sylvan solitudes I chose
To cure my passion, or conceal my woes
And oft beneath thy melancholy shade
Reluctant, pensive, half-resolved I stray'd ;
And trembling, faultering, frequent sighs I
pour'd
Before the shrine of Him but half adored ;
While as the sacred Virgin's form I view'd
A brighter idol every sense subdued !
While holy vows were lost in warm desires
Love dropp'd a tear that quench'd religion's
fires [shone,
Till through my eyes my heart's true fervour
And my fond soul, dear saint, was all thy own .'
Now o'er some craggy peak when frowning
night
Grasps the last lingering tint of ruby light ;
When o'er the vast expanse I seek in vain
The tawny vineyard and the yellow plain ;
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PETHARCH
Heedless I wander, while the tempest flies,
Brave the cold winds, nor heed the threatening
skies—
Where from the wild romantic cliffs around
The headlong waters fall with hollow sound ;
And stealing through the winding vale below,
Unseen, through mid-day glooms incessant flow ;
While sullen echo's aery tongue betrays
Where round her seat each drawling channel
8 trays;
While the lone owl, her lurid haunts among,
To the pale moon repeats her nightly song ;
While rocks acute my feverish limbs sustain,
Chill'd by the freezing blast and drizzling rain ;
While the keen winds in gusts impetuous yell,
O'er the bleak cliff, that guards the shadowy
deli,
When the loud thunder fills the troubled air,
And forests wither by the lightning's glare ;
Maddening I see thy glittering phantom rise,
Spring from the steep, and hover 'midst the
skies.
I rave, I shriek, from point to point I start,
While hell's worst torments riot in my heart}
I court the fiends my rending pangs to share,
And prove the wildest torments of despair.
When first to these calm shades I bent my
way,
lied by the light of intellectual ray,
I mark'd repose her gentlest balm diffuse,
To soothe the hapless hermit of Vauclusel
Where, 'midst the foliage of my laurel* bowers,
The Muse had sprinkled never-fading flowers ;
Where mild Philosophy unveil'd her shrine,
Each care to solace, and each wish refine ;
Whole years my studious eye intent explored
Die treasured gems by hoary wisdom stored !
Each truth sublime by ancient sages taught,
Graced with the glossy charm of polish'd thought ;
And oft the sickly taper's feeble rays
Shrunk from the splendours of the solar blaze,
While o'er the classic page absorb'd I hunfc,
Where Homer breathed, or tuneful Virgil sung !
When all was silence, all was peace, my breast
*No pang endured, no wayward thought con-
fess'd!
Swiftly thy beauty gleam'd across my sight,
Dimm'd the bright flame of transitory light,
Spurn'd each weak barrier trembling Reason
gave,
4Lnd plunged me vanquish' d in affliction's wave.
Yet, yet once more, my aching bosom sought
A lenient pause from agonizing thought ;
I left these bowers o'er foreign realms to stray,
Love lit his torch.to guide my thorny way !
* Petrarch dedicated this tree to his beloved Laura.
TO LAURA. 15
Mournful I journey'd o'er Italla's lands,
And moisten'd with my tears Sicilian sands ;
Where the proud Danube's rushing waters roll,
I pour'd the maddening anguish of my soul.
O'er Alpine hills, in solitary wo,
1 wept and wander'd 'midst eternal snow.
Oft did I mark the Rhone's impetuous stream
By the wan lustre of the moon-light beam ;
And as the foamy current curl'd along,
Heard the rocks echo with my frantic song !
Where Rome's majestic ruins tottering stand
The hourly victims of Time's mouldering hand,
Whole nights I've trode the tesselated stone,
While scarce a glimmering star in pity shone ;
Then starting 'midst th' impenetrable gloom,
Grasp'd the cold fragment of some martyr's
tomb
And tore the crawling ivy from its bed,
To weave a pillow for my burning head :
Then raised my eyes to God in fervent prayer,
To end my being and my sorrows there.
For O ! eternal martyrdom I prove,
Heaven's doom'd apostate— my fell tyrant, love !
When Rome herproud applause exulting gave,
And round my car her laurels stoop'd to wave !
When borne triumphant o'er the sacred ground,
By holy hands with flowery chaplets crown'd !
While clanking cymbals echo'd through the sky,
And rosy infants bade the censers* fly !
When nations throng'd thy poet's fame to share,
And shouts of rapture fill'd the perfumed air !
No flush'd delight from adulation caught,
No selfish joy with false ambition fraught
Could draw my prostrate soul from love and
thee,
Still at thy shrine I bent the trembling knee !
For who but thee, transcendent angel ! taught
The flame to live, which kindled every thought ?
For who, like thee, could heavenly themes in-
spire,
Or touch the sensate mind with hallow'd fire,
Mingling with mortal dust the spark divine,
That bade my verse with deathless glories shine.
In yon cool grot emboss'd with shells and
flowers, [pours;
Where the hot stream of noon-day light scarce
Where silence reigns, save when the shallow rill
With gurgling sound steals o'er the mossy sill ;
While 'midst the shadows of the twilight gleam,
I tuned my lyre— thy fatal charms my theme ;
O'er my chill'd form sleep's sable curtain hung,
Veil'd my sad eyes, and chain'd my faultering
. . tongue.
* Small vases suspended by silver or gold chains,
and filled with burning incense : they are generally
carried by children at religious ceremonies in Catho-
lic countries.
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16
Each sense absorb'd, yet my fond soul was free,
Its thoughts, its faculties, all dwelt with thee ;
Celestial visions hover'd o'er my breast,
And rose-lip'd angels soothed my pangs to rest ;
Their silver harps hung pendent on the sky,
Bound with unfading wreaths of emerald die,
While the wing'd choristers inscribed thy name
On heaven's blue tablet with ethereal flame.
In the bland portal of the rosy East
Aurora sat in golden mantle drest j
The silent air, in crystal fetters bound,
Slept on the folded clouds that glisten'd round ;
When to my ravish'd sight thy form was
shown,
Tlie guardian spirit of the sphery throne f
A crown of orient rays thy brow compress'd,
A zone of myrtle clasp'd thy snowy breast !
The tear of pity trembled in thine eye
Like a bright planet in the evening sky !
The blush of morning mantled o'er thy cheek,
When thus thy voice seraphic seem'd to speak :
" Freed from the goading chain of mortal care,
I rove a bless'd inhabitant of air ;
Yet, in delicious ecstacy I wait,
Till my loved Petrarch shall partake my fate :
The soul, once purified, awaits on those
Who toil amidst a wilderness of woes :
It guards the partners of its mortal hours,
When anguish threatens, or despair devours,
Shields the frail bosom of a cherub's wing,
And robs the tyrant, Death, of every sting.
* But see the ruddy dawn's advancing blaze
Tears my fond shadow from thy eager gaze ;
Yet oh ! if e'er thy Laura's virtue charm'd,
Her smile enraptured, or her beauty warm'd,
Let Hope sustain thy sickening soul to prove
< That heaven has joy, beyond the joys of love. ' "
She smiled and vanish'd, while my frantic
mind
" Awoke to all the griefs it left behind !"
Now driven from each vain gleam of fond do-
light,
My sun of glory saddens into night ;
My once proud laurels doom'd, alas ! to fade
On the pale forehead of a lingering shade.
I count my midnight beads, and kneeling, rave,
On the damp sod, my pallet and my grave.
Toiling through tedious years, unseen, unblest,
Eternal thorns corroding in my breast •
I fast, I pray, and yet no comfort find;
Heaven on my lips, but love within my mind !
For ihee* oh Laura ! restless sorrow pours,
Sighs that still burn, and tears that fall in showers;
The morning breaks; my feverish heart still
mourns,
Till twilight, pensive hour, again returns ;
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
When night's thick curtain o'er the scene un-
rurl'd
Throws rest and silence o'er the breathing world;
I feel thee still, within my heated brain ;
I weep, I sigh, I supplicate in vain !
Or, if by chance one pitying ray of rest
Warms the sad inmate of my throbbing breast,
'Tis but a gleam of intellectual light
That feebly glances o'er my mental sight,
And, for a moment, dissipates the gloom,
To point my weary footsteps to the tomb.
AINSI VA LE MONDE.
INSCRIBED TO A FRIEND.
Written at the beginning of the French Revolution.
O thou, to whom superior worth's allied,
Thy country's honour— and the Muses' pride ;
Whose pen gives polish to the varying line
That blends instruction with the song divine ;
Whose fancy, glancing o'er the hostile plain,
Plants a fond trophy o'er the mighty slain ;*
Or to the daisied lawn directs its way,
Blithe as the songstress of returning day;
Who deign'd to rove where twinkling glow
worms lead
The tiny legions o'er the glittering mead ;
Whose liquid notes in sweet meanderings flow,
Mild as the murmurs of the Bird of Wo ;
Who gave to Sympathy its softest power,
The charm to wing affliction's sable hour ;
Who in Italia's groves, with thrilling song>
Call'd mute attention from the minstrel throng;
Gave proud distinction to the poet's name,
And claim'd, by modest worth, the wreath of
fame-—
Accept the verse thy magic harp inspires,
Nor scorn the muse that kindles at its fires.
O, justly gifted with the sacred lyre,
Whose sounds can more than mortal thoughts
inspire,
Whether its strings heroic measures move,
Or lyric numbers charm the soul to love ;
Whether thy fancy " pours the varying verse"
In bowers of bliss, or o'er the plumed hearse;
Whether of patriot zeal, or pastoral sports,
The peace of hamlets, or the pride of courts s
Still Nature glows in every classic line-
Still genius dictates— still the verse is thine.
Too long the Muse, in ancient garb array'd,
Has pined neglected in oblivion's shade ;
* See an Elegy written on the plains of Fontenoy
by Robert Merry, Esq.
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AXNSX VA LE
Driven from the sun-shine of poetic fame,
Stripped of each charm, she scarcely boasts a
name:
Her voice no more can please the vapid throng ;
No more loud Pseans consecrate her song,
Cold, faint, and sullen, to the grove she flies,
"A faded garland veils her radiant eyes :
A withering laurel on her breast she wears,
Fann'd by her sighs, and spangled with her
tears:
From her each fond associate early fled,
She mourn' d a Milton lost, a Shakspeare dead :
Her eye beheld a Chatterton oppress'd,
A famish'd O t way— ravish' d from her breast ;
Now in their place a fluttering form appears,
Mocks her fall'n power, and triumphs in her
tears:
A flippant, senseless, aery thing, whose eye
Glares wanton mirth, and low-soul'd ribaldry.
While motley mummery holds her tinsel reign,
Shakspeare might write, and Garrickact in vain :
True wit recedes, when blushing reason views
This spurious offspring of the banish'd Muse.
The task be thine to check the daring hand
That leads fantastic folly o'er the land ;
The task be thine with witching spells to bind
The feathery shadows of the fickle mind j
To strew with deathless flowers the dreary
waste;
To pluck the weeds of vitiated taste ;
To cheer with smiles the Muse's glorious toil,
And plant perfection on her native soil :
The Arts, that through dark centuries have pined,
Toil'd without fame, in sordid chains confined,
Burst into light with renovated fire,
Bid envy shrink, and ignorance expire.
No more prim Kneller's simpering beauties vie,
Or Lely'8 genius droops with languid eye :
No more preposterous figures pain the view,
Aliens to Nature, yet to fancy true,
The wild chimeras of capricious thought,
Deform'd in fashion, and with errors fraught :
The Gothic phantoms sickening fade away,
And native genius rushes into day.
Reynolds, 'twas thine with magic skill to
trace
The perfect semblance of exterior grace ;
Thy hand, by Nature guided, marks the line
That stamps perfection on the form divine.
'Tie thine to tint the lip with rosy die,
To paint the softness of the melting eye ;
With auburn curls luxuriantly display'd,
The ivory shoulder's polish'd fall to shade ;
To deck the well-turn'd arm with matchless
grace,
To mark the dimpled smile on Beauty's face :
The task is thine, with cunning hand to throw
The veil transparent on the breast of snow :
MONDE. 17
The statesman's thought, the infant's cherub
mien,
The poet's fire, the matron's eye serene, .
Alike with animated lustre shine
Beneath thy polish'd pencil's touch divine.
As Britain's genius glories in thy art,
Adores thy virtues, and reveres thy heart,
Nations unborn shall celebrate thy name,
And waft thy memory on the wings of Fame.
Oft when the mind, with sickening pangs op-
press 'd
Flies to the Muse, and courts the balm of rest,
When Reason, sated with life's weary woes,
Turns to itself— and finds a blest repose,
A generous pride that scorns each petty art,
That feels no envy rankling in the heart,
No mean deceit that wings its shaft at fame,
Or gives to pamper' d vice a pompous name ;
Then, calm reflection shuns the sordid crowd,
The senseless chaos of the little proud,
Then, indignation, stealing through the breast,
Spurns the pert tribe in flimsy greatness drest ;
Who, to their native nothingness consign'd,
Sink in contempt— nor leave a trace behind.
Then Fancy paints, in visionary gloom,
The sainted shadows of the laurel'd tomb.
The star of virtue glistening on each breast,
Divine insignia of the spirit blest !
Then Milton smiles serene, a beauteous shade,
In worth august— in lustrous fires array'd :
Immortal Shakspeare gleams across the sight,
Robed in ethereal vest of radiant light.
Wing'd ages picture to the dazzled view
Each mark'd perfection— of the sacred few,
Pope, Dryden, Spenser, all that fame shall raise,
From Chaucer's gloom— till these enlighten d
days:
Then emulation kindles fancy's fire,
The glorious throng poetic flights inspire
Each sensate bosom feels the god-like flame,
The cherish'd harbinger of future feme.
Yet timid genius, oft in conscious ease,
Steals from the world, content the few to please :
Obscured in shades, the modest muse retires,
While sparkling vapours emulate her fires.
The proud enthusiast shuns promiscuous praise,
The idiot's smile condemns the poet's lays.
Perfection wisely courts the liberal few,
The voice of kindred genius must be true.
But empty witlings sate the public eye
With puny jest and low buffoonery,
The buzzing hornets swarm about the great,
The poor appendages of pamper' d state ;
The trifling, fluttering insects of a day
Flit near the sun, and glitter in its ray ;
Whose subtle fires with charms magnetic burn*
Where every abject fool may have his turn.
C
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18
Lull'd In the lap of indoleftoe, they hoait
Who best can fawn— and who can flatter most ;
Who with obsequious smiles mislead the mind,
And prove most mischievous, by seeming
kind;
Pour on the ear soft adulation's sound,
And give to infamy the fame they wound ;
While with a cunning arrogance they hlend
Sound without sense— and wit that stabs a
friend;
Slanders oblique— that check ambition's toil,
The poisonous weeds, that mark the barren soil.
So the sweet blossoms of salubrious spring
Through the lone wood their spicy odours fling ;
Shrink from the sun, and bow their toauteous
heads
To scatter incense o'er their native beds,
While coarser flowers expand with gaudy ray,
Brave the rude wind, and mock the burning
day.
Ah! gentle muse, from trivial follies turn,
Where patriot souls with god-like passions
burn;
So shall thy song to glorieus themes aspire,
Rapt in the wonders of the poet's lyre.
Through all the scenes of nature's varying
plan,
Celestial Freedom warms the breast of man ;
Led by her daring hand, what power can bind
The boundless efforts of the labouring mind.
The god-like fervour, thrilling through the heart,
Gives new creation to each vital part ;
Throbs rapture through each palpitating vein,
Wings the wild thought, and warms the fertile
brain.
To her the noblest attributes of Heaven,
Ambition, valour, eloquence, are given.
She binds the soldier's brow with wreaths su-
blime,
From her, expanding reason learns to climb,
To her the sounds of melody belong,
She wakes the raptures of the poet's song ;
'Tis god-like Freedom bids each passion live,
That truth may boast, or patriot virtue give.
From her, the arts enlighten'd splendours own,
She guides the peasant— eh? adorns the throne ;
To mild philanthropy extends her hand,
Gives truth pre-eminence, and worth command ;
Her eye directs the path that leads to fame,
Lights Valour's torch, and trims the glorious
flame;
She scatters joy o'er nature's endless scope,
Gives strength to reason— ecstacy to hope ;
Tempers each pang humanity can feel,
And binds presumptuous power with nerves of
steel;
Strangles each tyrant phantom in its birth,
And knows no title but— superior worth.
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Enlighten'd Gallia! what were all your toy*,
Your dazzling splendours— your voluptuous
joys?
What were your glittering villas— lofty tow'rs,
Your perfumed chambers, and your painted
bowers?
Did not insidious Art those gifts bestow,
To cheat the prying eye— with tinsel show ?
Yes ; luxury diffused her spells to bind
The deep researches of the restless mind ;
To lull the active soul with witching wiles,
To hide pale Slavery in a mask of smiles ;
The towering wings of reason to restrain,
And lead the victim in a flowery chain.
When warlike Louis,* arrogant and vain,
Whom worth could never hold, or fear restrain,
The soul's last refuge in repentance sought,
The artful Maintenon absolved each fault ;
She who had led his worldly steps astray
Now " smooth'd his passage to the realms of
day!"
O, monstrous hypocrite .'—who vainly strove
By pious fraud to win a people's love ;
Whose coffers groan'd with reliques from the
proud,
The pompous offsprings of the venal crowd,
And yet— so sacred was the matron's fame,
Nor truth, nor virtue, dared assail her name ;
None could approach but with obsequious breath,
To speak was treason— and to murmur, death.
In meek and humble garb, she veil'd command,
While helpless millions shrunk beneath her
hand.
And when ambition's idle dream was o'er,
And art could blind, and beauty charm no
more;
She, whose luxurious bosom spurn'd restraint,
Who lived the slave of passion— died a saint If
What were the feelings of the hapless throng,
By threats insulted, and oppress'd with wrong:?
While grasping avarice, with skill profound,
Spread her fell snares, and dealt destruction
round;
Each rising sun some new infringement saw,
While pride was consequence— and power was
law;
A people's sufferings hoped redress in vain,
Subjection curb'd the tongue that dared com-
plain.
Imputed guilt each virtuous victim led
Where all the fiends their direst mischiefs spread ;
Where, through long ages past, with watchful
care,
Thy tyrants, Gallia, nursed the witch Despair.
* Louis XIV.
* Madame de Maintenon died a perfect devotee af
the convent of St. Cyr.
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Where In her black BaatUe the harpy fed
On the warm crimson drops her fangs had shed ;
Where recreant malice mock'd the sufferer's
sigh,
While regal lightnings darted from her eye.—
Where deep mysterious whispers murmur' d
round, [ground.
And death stalk'd sullen o'er the. treacherous
SIGHT. ig
What bids exulting liberty impart
Ecstatic raptures to the human heart ;
Calls forth each hidden spark of glorious fire,
Bids untaught minds to valiant feats aspire ;
What gives to freedom its supreme delight ?
'Tis emulation, instinct, nature, right !
O day— transcendent on the page of Fame !
When from her heaven insulted Freedom came ;
Glancing e'er earth's wide space, her beaming
eye
Mark'd the dread scene of impious slavery ;
Warm'd by her breath, the vanqulsh'd, trem-
bling race,
Wake from the torpid slumber of disgrace ;
Roused by oppression, Man his birth-right
claims, [flames;
O'er the proud battlements red vengeance
Exulting thunders rend the turbid skies ;—
In sulphurous clouds the gorgeous ruin lies !
The angel Pity now each cave explores*
Braves the chill damps, and fells the ponderous
doors,
Tears from the flinty walls the clanking chains,
Where many a dreadful tale of wo remains,
Where many a sad memorial marks the hour,
That gave the rights of man to ravenous power,
Now, snatch'd from death, the wondering
wretch shall prove
The rapturous energies of social love ;
Whose limbs each faculty denied-— whose sight
Had long resign'd all intercourse with light ;
Whose wasted form the humid earth received,
Who, numb'd with anguish— scarcely felt he
lived;
Who, when the midnight bell assail'd his ears,
From feverish slumbers woke— to shed new
tears: [thrall'd,
While slow-consuming grief each sense en-
Till Hope expired, and Valour shrunk— ap-
pall'd : [guise,
Where veil'd suspicion lurk'd in shrewd dis-
While eager vengeance oped her thousand eyes ;
While the hired slave, the fiend of wrath, de-
sign'd
To lash, with scorpion-scourges, human-kind—
Dragg'd with ingenious pangs the tardy hour,
To feed the rancour of insatiate Power.
Blest be the favour'd delegates of Heaven,
To whose illustrious souls the task was given
To wrench the bolts of tyranny— and dare
The petrifying confines of despair ;
With heaven's own breeze to cheer the gasping
breath,
And spread broad sun-shine in the caves of death.
What is the charm that bids mankind disdain
The tyrant's mandate, and th' oppressor's chain ;
When this revolving orb's first course began,
Heaven stamp'd divine pre-eminence on mau;
To him it gave the intellectual mind,
Persuasive eloquence and truth refined ;
Humanity to harmonize his sway,
And calm religion to direct bis way ;
Courage to tempt ambition's lofty flight,
And conscience to illume his erring sight.
Who shall the natural rights of man deride,
When freedom spreads her fostering banners
wide ? [throws
Who shall contemn the heaven •taught zeal that
The balm of comfort on a nation's Woes?
That tears the veil from superstition's eye,
Bids despots tremble, and oppression die?
Wrests hidden treasure from the sordid hand,
And flings profusion o'er a famish'd land ?—
Nor yet, to Gallia are her smiles confined,
She opes her radiant gates to all mankind ;
Sure on the peopled earth there cannot be
A foe to liberty— 'that dares be free ?
Who that has tasted bliss will e'er deny
The magic power of thrilling ecstacy ?
Who that has breathed health's vivifying breeze,
Would tempt the dire contagion of disease ?
Or, prodigal of joy, his birth-right give
In shackled slavery— a wretch to live ?
Yet let ambition hold a temperate sway,
When virtue rules— 'tis rapture to obey;
Man can but reign his transitory hour,
And love may bind— when fear has lost its
power.
Proud may he be who nobly acts his part,
Who boasts the empire of each subject's heart,
Whose -worth exulting millions shall approve,
Whose richest treasure is— a nation's love.
SIGHT.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ. OCULIST
TO HIS MAJESTY.
O thou ! all wonderful, all glorious power
That through the soul diffusest light sublime,
And bidet it see the omnipotence of God !
O sight ! to man the vivifying lamp,
That, darting through the Intellectual maze,
Giv'st to each rising thought the living ray !
As the Promethean touch awoke that source
Whose glory warms the planetary world,
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20 MRS. ROBINSON'S
So the Supreme illumed the visual orb,
To mark his works, and wonder at his power f
Transcendent gift ! but for thy light divine,
Oh ! what a chaos were the mind of man !
Composed of atoms, exquisitely fine,
Each moving in a dark obstructed sphere,
Forlorn, and undelighted! for to him
Whose eye ne'er drank the widely beaming ray,
What are the wonders of the starry worlds ;
Creation's fair domain, its gems, its hues,
And all its bright diversity of charms ?
What are his faculties, his passions, thoughts ?
He labours through a wilderness obscure,
Each other sense awaken'd, wanting still
That sense divine, which gives to each its charm ;
The earth, to him, a solitary speck,
For ever mournful, and for ever drear !
Oblivion horrible ! to know no change ;
Nor light from darkness ! nor the human form,
The image of perfection infinite !
To fashion various phantoms of the brain,
By each amused, and yet by each deceived !
To roll the aching eye, alas ! in vain,
And still to find a melancholy blank
Of years, and months, and days and lingering
hours,
All dark alike, eternally obscure !
To such a wretch ! whose brightest sense of bliss
Is but the shadow of a waking dream,
The sleep of death, with all its starting fears,
Must teem with prospects of Elysium !
For what is sleep, but temporary death ;
Sealing up all the windows of the soul,
And binding every thought in torpid chains ?
Tet, only for a time the spell controls,
And soothing visions gild the transient gloom ;
For every active faculty of mind
Springs from the numbing apathy of sleep
With renovated lustre and delight !
But he who knows one unenlighten'd void,
One dreary night, unbless'd with cheerful
dreams, [sleeps,
Lives in the midst of death; and, when he
Feeds a perpetual solitude of wo,
Without one ray to dissipate its gloom.
Then what to him avails the varying year,
The orient morn, or evening's purple shade,
That robes creation in a garb of rest ?
What all the beauties of the vast expanse,
The tint cerulean, or the vaulted arch
Of heaven's eternal dome ! Can fancy paint,
With all the vivid magic of her power,
The spangling legions of the sphery plains;
The gaudy- vested summer's saffron glow,
When proudly gilded by its parent sun,
As through the flaming heavens his dazzling car,
Burnish' d with sparkling light, sheds liquid gold
POEMS,
O'er seas ethereal; while the breezes stay
To kiss the fainting flowers, whose silky heads
Inclining, fade beneath their withering touch ?
Can fancy give the rainbow's lustre pure
To the cold vacuum of the sightless eye ?
Insensible to colours, space, or form,
Stumbling and fearful, through a desert shade,
Man gropes forlorn, and labouring like the mole ;
He feels the vivifying glow divine,
But, 'midst the blaze of radiance infinite,
An isolated being, wanders still,
Sad, unillumed, disconsolate, and lost !
Nor yet alone the misery extreme
Of the dread gloom opaque involves his mind ;
The longing for that something yet unknown,
Whose power he feels, diffusing its warm touch
O'er every sensate nerve! that Power which
marks
The varying seasons in their varying forms,
That tells him there is yet a sense untried,
Ungratified, yet fraught with heavenly bliss,
Distracts beyond the certitude of pain,
Chills the expanding source of mental joy,
And deadens all the faculties of man !
Ah ! wo too exquisite for human thought !
Of mortal miseries, the dread Supreme !
How can the soul its energies sustajn,
When Reason's crystal gates are closed in night,
And cold Oblivion hovers o'er the mind ?
What are the horrors of the dungeon's gloom,
The bolts of steel, or the flint-fretted roof,
The temporary spells that shut the wretch
From the bland glories of effulgent day ?
While Hope comes smiling on the wings of
Time,
And the small crevice in his loathsome cell,
That promises a glimmering stream of light,
Bids him look forward to the coming joy !
What are the self-created, anxious fears,
That, thronging round the midnight traveller,
Give to his straining eye fantastic forms,
And fills imagination's boundless scope
With shadowy hosts, scaring his startled mind ;
While Silence reigns despotic o'er the plain ;
Save where the bird of solitude salutes
The melancholy hour, and pours alone
Her love-bewailing song ; yet Hope beguiles,
Nor quits him as he strays, 'till the wan moon,
Peering in silvery panoply of light,
Sails placidly sublime through the still air,
And scatters round her imitative day !
But the unvarying cloud of deepest night !
The blank perpetual of the sightless orb !
The mournful chaos of the darken'd brain !
No hope can animate, no thought illume ;
All is eternal solitude profound ;
A dreadful shade, that mocks each other sense,
And plunges Reason in its worst abyss !
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SOLITUDE.
21
And yet, in such a mind, so whelm'd In gloom,
Hie pore affections of tbe soul still live !
The melancholy void is subject still
To the sweet magic of seraphic sounds ;
The soothing eloquence of sacred song ;
The whispering gale, that mourns declining day ;
Or Philomela's soul-subduing strain,
That woos lone Echo, from her viewless seat,
To sail aerial-throned upon the breeze !
The lulling murmurs of tbe wandering stream ;
The ever rippling rill ; the cataract fierce ;
The lowing herds ; and the small drowsy tones
That, from tbe insect myriads, hum around ;
The love-taught minstrelsy of plumed throats ;
The dulcet strains of gentle Consolation !
But, most of all, to that loved voice, whose thrill,
Rushing impetuous through each throbbing vein,
Dilates the wondering mind, and frees its powers
From the cold chains of icy apathy
To all tbe vast extremes of bliss and pain !
For, to that voice adored, his quivering pulse
Responsive beats ! be marks its every tone,
And finds in each a sympathetic balm !
Ill-fated -wretch ! he knows not tbe sweet sense
That feeds upon the magic of a smile !
That drinks the poison of the murderous eye,
Or rushes, in an ecstacy of bliss,
To snatch the living roses from the cheek !
He knows not what it is to trace each charm
That plays about the symmetry of form,
And heightens every timid blushing grace,
More lovely from the wonder it commands !
He never mark'd the soul-expressive tear !
The undescribable and speaking glance,
That promises unutterable bliss .
Then what to him avails the ruby lip,
Or the rich lustre of the silky waves,
That half conceal the azure tinctured eye,
As golden clouds rush on the morning star,
And glow, exulting, o'er its milder ray .
O glorious sight ! sublimest gift of God !
Expansive source of intellectual bliss !
By thee we climb to immortality,
Through all tbe rugged paths of tedious life !
Thy nerve shoots forth a light ineffable,
That marks the fount of science, and reveals
The many- winding paths of wisdom's maze !
Thou canst within thy narrow vortex grasp
The out-stretcb'd ocean, and tbe landscape wide,
Diversified with craggy cliffs, whose heads
Hang fearfully sublime, half veil'd in clouds,
O'er the low valley's solitary breast !
"lis thine upon the mountain's dizzy edge
To ponder on the wonders of the sky !
Or, bending o'er the margin, trace below
The world of mingling atoms, lessening still
As the dread cavity grows more profound ;
Till woods, and lakes, and scatter'd villages,
And stately palaces, and lofty spires,
Fade in the deep impenetrable gloom !
Thou canst avert the storm that gathers round,
And bids thee seek tbe hospitable roof
Where meek philanthropy unfolds her store !
'Tis thine to contemplate the gorgeous sun
In all its majesty of living light,
Flaming despotic, o'er unnumber'd worlds !
'Tis thine to mark the snowy vested plains,
That, like the glittering stores of avarice,
Dazzle and chill the wretched wanderer's soul !
Or, midst the wreck of nature, still secure,
Gaze where the 'blackening tempest, bursting
round,
Tears the young branches from the parent trunk,
And strips the forest of its loftiest pride !
And yet ! so wonderfully form'd to meet
The cutting blast, tbe winged lightning's glare,
The painful radiance of the scorching eun ;
To watch the midnight taper's glimmering flame
O'er the long studious page, or pore intent
Upon the fine- wrought mysteries that lurk
In art mechanical ! to trace tbe stars
Through all their devious labyrinths of air ;
To plunge amidst the framings of the deep ;
Or pour the copious torrents from that spring
By pity cherish'd in the human breast !
Yet>— so alive is every wondrous part,
In each complete, in all pre-eminent !
So exquisitely delicate each nerve,
So subject to destruction and to pain,
That the minutest particle obscure,
Almost invisible to that it meets,
Obstructs its powers, and o'er the visual ray
Rolls a huge mass of agonizing shade '
Such are the horrors, such the pangs acute,
That shroud the darken'd eye, whose mortal
sense,
Consign'd to one unbless'd and mournful night,
Can by Eternal Day alone be cured .
Where the dim shade shall vanish from its beams,
And, bathing in a sea of endless light,
The renovated orb, awoke from death,
Shall snatch its rays from immortality.
SOLITUDE.
Hail, Solitude serene ! thou nurse of thought !
To whom the weary mind retires, to taste
The blissful hour of exquisite repose '.
Thou, who delight'st to dwell in shaggy woods,
Whose variegated foliage hangs its shade
O'er the rude margin of the mountain's brow ;
Or, interwoven, down its sloping side,
Spreads the dim horrors of a mid-day night !
Hail, pensive Solitude ! whose footsteps stray
Along the pebbly borders of the main,
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22
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Wh«n from the eastern clouds the Sun darts
forth,
Lifting his glorious canopy of fire
Above the pale horizon, spreading round
A living world of undulating light !
Or seek the cool and unfrequented bower,
The bushy dell, or the dew-spangled grot,
When the fierce lord of noon, with flaming eye,
Rolls furious o'er the sapphire floor of heaven;
Or downward shoots his shaft of glittering fire,
Upon the sultry heath and thirsty mead,
To drink the lingering tears of morn, that shine
On the young violet's aromatic breast :
Or, when, with humid hand, her purple robe
Meek Twilight draws across the mountain's
brow,
Veiling its golden crest, in dusky shade
Of cold, oblivious gloom, thou lov'st to sit,
And watch the lamp of night, ethereal borne,
Glide o'er the cavem'd cliff, whose torrents roar
Down its stupendous sides, and foam to reach
The desolated valley, lost below !
Then, Solitude, 'tis thine in every gale
To hear celestial breathings ; from each hill
To quaff the balmy essence of the breeze ;
To mark, in every magic change of scene,
The grand diversity of nature's laws,
Yet find in all the ever present God !
Whose power, sublime, with equal wonder
moves
In the small flow'ret bursting from the earth,
As in the sphere-crown'd eagle's towering wing !
Then wilt thou trace, with fancy's tearful
eye,
The once delicious scene ; the rural cot ;
The village house of prayer; the sun-burnt
hind;
The lowly children of the rushy roof;
The flocks ; the herds ; and all the golden pride
Of glowing autumn whelm'd beneath the flood.
O sacred Solitude ! amidst thy scenes
Of rapture infinite, thy ills are these :
The ruthless cataract ; the midnight blast ;
The death- wing'd tempest; and the withering
bolt
Of heaven-avenging wrath ! Nor art thou only
Destined to endure, in solitary shades,
The sad diversity of direful wo !
The sweeping hurricane, the stormy hour,
The fetal lightnings, and the whelming flood,
Are but the emblems of disastrous life !
Then let me court thee in thy gentlest form ;
In lonely grottos, and in verdant glens,
Where the slow brook runs babbling from its
source,
And perfumed zephyrs fan the fervid ray !
Where Meditation, like a hermit pure,
With bosom taught by mild philanthropy,
In silence mourns the miseries of man !
Creation's lord ! who, placed amidst die gems,
The luxuries of nature's vast domain,
Still pants for more ; and, still impatient, grasps
The glittering vision of delusive Joys ;
The gaudy phantoms of a transient day ;
The breath of popularity, that turns
Inconstant as the wind ; the flatterer's smile ;
The wreath of fame, imbued with human gore;
And, worst of all— O agonizing thought !
The paltry boast of treasure, wrung, alas,
From the torn bosom of the hapless slave,
The wretched offspring of a fiercer sun !
For these, he wields the desolating sword ;
Quits the dear mansion of domestic peace ;
The loved companions of his native home ;
The social comforts, .and the calm delights,
That thronging round the blazing hearth, beguile
The tardy winter's night : for these he dares
The poisonous vapours of infected dimes.
The torrid ray, or the pernicious blasts
Of petrifying Lapland's cheerless skies!
For these he wanders for, o'er unknown seas,
To tame the tribes barbarian, or explore
The sad variety of human woes.
Oh ! blind, misguided, and mistaken man !
To leave the garden of luxurious sweets,
And wander 'midst a desert, fraught with
thorns.
Ah ! let me, in some shelter'd valley, own
A cottage, lowly, but secure from harm j
From the rude rioter, or caitiff wretch,
Who, prowling by the twinkling starry light,
Assails the houseless traveller, and bares
Against his beating breast the murd'rous knife.
From such as these secure, let sweet repose
Strew on my pillow rude the buds of spring,
The opening treasures of the infant year !
There, let oblivious slumbers lull my mind,
And harmonize the quickly throbbing pulse,
That, through the creeping hour of day. endured
The various thrills of ecstacy and wo.
And you, ye airy phantoms of the brain,
Ye forms fantastical, or fraught with fear,
Oh ! fly the blest abode of gentle peace ;
Nor with your agonizing spells assail
The weary senses, wrapp'd in balmy sleep !
And when the lark, the harbinger of day,
Sweeps the blue ether with exulting wing,
And welcomes her approach with shrilly song,
With thee 111 quaff the ever- winding rUl,
And feast upon the luxuries that rise
From the warm bosom of the teeming earth !
While Health, the blooming handmaid of Re-
pose,
Shall smile upon my board, and give a zest
To the rich banquet of content and joy.
There the faint wanderer shall be my guest,
With modest mien, and converse undefiled ;
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THE raOGRESS OF MELANCHOLY.
23
Unvarnish'd emblems of the spotless soul !
And there, the legendary tale shall claim
The midnight hour serene ; while the pale lamp
Shall feebly gleam upon the frugal board :
Yet, not to these confined ; the loftier theme,
The wing'd idea, and the soothing strain
Of heaven-descended seng, shall charm the sou),
And give -to every nerve a keener sense !
There, shall the hoary sage, Philosophy,
Unfold his sacred lore ; while Wisdom's son
Shall, smiling, Smooth the rigid brow austere,
And mingle in the scene of humbler bliss !
Then, welcome Solitude ! The sphere is thine,
That gives the purest passions ample scope !
That bids the soul beam with exterior grace
Of light, reflected from the source within !
And when its essence shall evaporate,
Fann'd by the desolating wing of time j
When this dull scene of transitory life,
And all its sorrows, all its joys are o'er ;
One sparkling atom, from its prison clay,
Shall soar, to mingle with its native heaven.
THE
PROGRESS OF MELANCHOLY,
A FRAGMENT.
O! Melancholy! parent of Despair,
Whose pitying power, whose poison fell
Creeps through the sickening brain, the pallid
cheek,
The languid downcast eye, the listless frame,'
The desolating toil of ceaseless thought,
Proclaim thy dark and fateful hour at hand !
•Abserb'd amidst surrounding revelry, •»
Thy child, O ruthless Melancholy ! ' steals ;
Unheeding the loud laugh, the wanton jest,
The sign mysterious, or the whisper low
Of shrewd, sharp -sighted, prying observation.
Nor magic charm, nor herb medicinal,
Nor all the treasured lore of studious skill,
Can draw thy victim from the numbing spell
That fascinates and chains her yielding soul ! '
Seldom she speaks : if question' d, she returns [
The answer incoherent and unapt, I
Mark'd by the frequent pause and vacant eye.
Sometimes she weeps; but nature's niggard
hand
Denies the copious shower, sweet balmy fount*
That cools and vivifies the burning brain '
And now she starts ! and now-and-then, by fits,
S'te looks aghast, trembles, and deeply sighs ;
Then sinks into the torpid dream again.
She loathes the blooms of spring ; the glowing
hour
Of feast and minstrelsy, and playful mirth !
Her mind, each active faculty possess'd,
Resigns itself to ever-musing wo :
For her no orient beam adorns the sky ;
No balmy wing ethereal through the shade
Flings the refreshing breeze ; no limpid brook
Sparkles with noon-tide rays, reflected back
With ten-fold lustre from its glassy breast !
The change of season, and the varying hour,
Serve to make up the dull account of time,
But bring no interval of gleaming joy !
Or, if her sense can aught discriminate,
She ponders on the miseries of life ;
The barren mountain, where the tottering hut
Rocks as the whirlwind sweeps its rushy roof,
And hurls it fathoms down the craggy steep !
The chamber, where the paly quivering lamp
Shows the worn sufferer on the bed of death !
For her the woodland nightingale attunes
His song nocturnal, unregarded — lost !
The sad, the sympathetic, plaintive strain,
O'er the dull ear of sorrow passes faint,
If not unheeded j or, if feeling wakes,
Recall'd by memory to long past wo,
Reflection glances o'er the page of time,
And marks its progress with a silent tear !
Pale Melancholy shuns the rural haunt,
Where Peace, and Joy, and Revelry preside !
Bliss-breathing Health, that welcomes young
Desire,
Led on by smiling Hope and blooming Love,
Starts from her withering form, and steals
away,
While apathy, with petrifying band,
Spreads a dim shadow o'er each faded charm.
The twilight gloom amidst embowering woods
She courts, and bending o'er some wizard stream
That winds among the ever-mouldering heaps,
Strew' d by the touch of time from antique
towers
And arches fretted with fantastic forms,
She sits, the pensive genius of the scene !
Around her cell attentive stillness reigns ;
The breezes sleep ; and o'er its pebbly bed
The shallow river bends its silent way ;
Death seems to triumph o'er the breathing
world,
Save where the bat from the dark ruin flits,
Cleaving the night-mist with its dusky wing.
Nor there alone presides the mournful maid ;
She loves to stray, and ponder as she strays,
Along the dreary monumental pile ;
Where, from the Gothic roof, with ivy bound,
The whistling wind descends, and through the
aisle
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24 WHS
Sweeps the long hoarded dust for ages heaped
On the vain records of th' unconscious dead !
Oft, when the wintry moon o'ertops the hills,
In circling vapour wrapp'd, she wanders forth
O'er the bleak heath ; list'ning the rising gale,
Or distant village bell, whose sound, once told,
Proclaims the witching hour. Then Fancy
comes ;
But in her train no lovely forms appear,
No blithesome groups, thridding the roseate
wreath,
Or tripping in fantastic measures by ;
No sylvan pipe, no rude, yet dulcet note
Of mountain minstrelsy delights her ear ;
But the shrill menace of the freezing blast,
(Throned on whose black and desolating wing
Disease and death hurl the destructive shaft)
Howls o'er her breast. Still dauntless, she
proceeds ;
The drizzly dew, the sharp and nipping gale,
Pass o'er her cheek unheeded. All alone
She contemplates the solitary scene,
While horror, maddening, conjures up an host
Of spectres gaunt ; of chiefs, whose mould'ring
bones
Have slept beneath the green-sod where they fell,
Till village legends scarcely say — they died !
Now from their prison-graves again they start,
Hurling the airy javelin on the foe ;
And now they rush, in mighty legions, on ;
Now from the lengthening columns fiercely
brave;
And now the broken ranks disorder'd fly,
Pale as the silvery beam that marks their course ;
And now the breathless heaps bestrew the plain,
While on their mangled limbs the batter'd shield
Gleams horrible ; as through the indented steel
The life-stream gushes from the recent wound !
The groan of death fills up the dreadful pause ;
Sad, and more sad, it echoes o'er the scene,
Till, oft repeated, the deep murmur dies !
The cherish'd poison, now more potent grown,
Riots o'er all the faculties at will ;
Strong in conceit, with fascination fraught,
Painfully pleasing. As the fever burns
The consciousness of misery recedes ;
Till, fill'd with horror, Reason's barrier fails,
And Frenzy triumphs o'er the infected brain!
Now the wan maniac hurries to the bourn
Whose sandy base the frequent surges lave ;
Dishevell'd ! wild ! and fearless of the storm !
There, o'er the dreadful summit she inclines,
While darkness wraps the liquid world below :
She listens, with attention mute, to catch
The mournful murmurs of the distant main ;
The tempest wakes ; the roused and angry waves
Rise in the mighty elemental strife,
Urged by the howling blast, whose forceful
breath
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Repels them, foaming, to their native deep.
Amidst the din terrific, the doomed bark
Strikes on the rocky shore. The wretched crew
Fill the dread chorus with the groans of death,
Till the tired winds moan o'er the shatter'd
wreck,
That sinks amidst the fathomless abyss ! .
Rous' d from her dream, pale Melancholy
starts; [heard;
Shrieks louder than the blast! but shrieks un-
Then plunges headlong from the dizzy steep,
And, in the bosom of despair, expires !
Now the faint dawn gleams o'er the eastern
cliff;
The smooth sea brightens with the coming ray,
And not a vestige of the storm is seen !
THE CAVERN OF WO.
As Reason, fairest daughter of the skies,
Explored the vale, where mortal misery lies ;
Led on by Fortitude, with eye serene,
She mark'd each object of the varying scene;
In every maze of busy life she found
Some hidden snare, some agonizing wound;
For each her hand display'd a precious balm,
Whose power divine the tortured soul could
calm;
Till midway, on a rock of dreadful height,
The cave of cureless Wo assail'd her wondering
sight !
On the bleak threshold, withering and for-
lorn,
Heart- wounded Melancholy sat reclined !
The rude blast scattered her dishevell'd
hair;
Round her cold brow the deadly nightshade
twined !
Near, on a craggy point, stood wild Despair,
Whose pangs supreme all lesser miseries scorn !
And as the gaunt tormentor, smiling, view'd
The pensive child of Sorrow, soul-subdued ;
With taunting mien, she beckon'd from
below
The fierce, relentless bands of desolating Wo !
First, sw ift as lightning up the flinty steep
Impatience flew, barefooted, out of breath ;
Scorning the perils of the dreadful sweep ;
Heedless of wounding thorns, and threat'ning
death.
Eager to rush the foremost of the train,
She fear'd not danger, and she felt not
pain;
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THE CAVERN OF WO.
With longing eye she view'd the towering
height; [light,
From peak to peak, quick climbing with de-
She pass'd the fetal care; then turning
short, Report .'
Fell headlong from the rock, of every fiend the
Then Horror darted forth, in wild amaze !
Her hair erect, with poisonous hemlock
bound;
Her straining eye-balls flashing fires around,
While Nature trembled at her potent gaze !
Swift to the dizzy precipice she flew,
As, aiming with impetuous force to throw
Her giant form amidst the gulf below !
When, from an ivy'd nook obscure, pale
Fear [ear,
Peep'd forth, slow whispering to her startled
" Think not the power of Death thy miseries
will subdue !"
Then Horror bent her blood-shot eyes be-
low,
Where, by a group of demons compass'd round,
Lay Suicide accursed ! from many a wound
On his bare bosom did life's fountain flow !
Now Shame, with cheeks by burning blushes
fired,
And skulking Cowardice, in haste retired !
While Conscience placed beneath bis feverish
head
A pillow dire, with thorns and nettles spread;
And Guilt, with all the scorpions of her train,
Oped to his fainting eyes eternity of pain !
Then Luxury approach'd on couch of down !
Drawn by her offspring, Folly and Disease,
Flush'd Pleasure decking her with roseate
crown,
And bow'd Obedience, ever prone to please,
Waiting her nod ! languid she seem'd and
pale,
Restless, and sated with voluptuous fare ;
Beside her pillow, hung with trappings rare,
Stood trembling Palsy, ready to assail ;
And writhing Agony, and slow Decay,
And hood-wink' d Vice abhorr'd, that shunn'd
the eye of day.
Next, with a solemn, slow, and feeble pace,
Came silent Poverty, in tatter'd vest !
The frequent tears, that glisten'd on her
breast,
Had fretted channels down her meagre face !
A rabble crew of idiots dinn'd her ear :
While mean Reproach came smiling in the
rear.
With firm, yet modest look, she pass'd along ;
Nor sought relief, nor mark'd the taunting
throng;
25
While her wrung heart, still scorning to
complain, [proud disdain.
Suppress'd the rending groan, and throbb'd with
Close at her heels, insidious Envy crept;
The imp, deform'd and horrible in shape,
Mock'd, when the slow-consuming victim
wept,
Pointing, and grinning, like a wither'd ape :
About her throat the asp Detraction clung,
Scattering destructive poisons from her
tongue !
She waved a blasted laurel o'er her head,
Stolen from the sacred ashes of the dead ;
Inly she pined ; while in her panting breast
Shrunk Ignorance struck its fangs, to banish
gentle rest.
In a lone corner, almost hid in shade,
With downcast eye, sat unrequited Love !
As from their hollow cell the slow tears
stray'd,
A willow garland for his brow he wove !
Low at his feet bare Madness laid his head,
Rattling his chains, upon his flinty bed !
Roused from his stupor by the clanking
sound,
The pensive youth gazed fearfully around ;
And wondering to behold such misery near,
Forgot his mournfri wreath, and dropp'd a pity-
ing tear.
Now, labouring up the flinty winding road,
Laden with treasure, bending to the ground,
Appear'd lean Avarice ! the ponderous load
Seem'd his weak shoulders every step to
wound : [form ;
One thread-bare garb hung on* his aged
Scant covering from the bleak and wintry
storm!
Before him Famine went, a thing decay'd ;
And dark Suspicion, grasping at a shade !
While Fraud, low crawling, mock'd the
reptile's art,
Pilfer' d the scatter 'd gold, and wrung the mi-
ser's heart !
Next came Deceit, with smooth and fawn-
ing tongue,
Glozing with praises every thing debased ;
To shield her breast a flattering mirror hung;
A tinsel zone shone dazzling round her waist !
Her hand, conceal'd beneath her flimsy vest,
Clasp'd a keen dagger, ready to destroy ;
Content she seem'd, though, in her cunning
breast,
Her coward soul shrunk from the touch of joy ;
Her humble voice the listening ear beguiled,
While, with infernal art, she murder'd as sht
smiled.
D
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86
Now through the cavern rush'd with iron
hand
Oppression insolent ! his arm he raised,
Waring his spear, with absolute command,
While every subject fiend retired, amazed !
At awful distance, trembling, prostrate
round,
The sons of pining slavery kiss'd the ground ;
Till, darting forward, o'er the abject crowd,
With voice exulting, menacing, and loud,
Insatiate Vengeance snatch'd the up-raised
lance,
While bold Oppression's arm fell nerveless at
his glance.
Next Pride came forward, gorgeously ar-
Tfay'd ;
His brow a starry wreath of gems compress'd ;
In his right hand a sceptre he display'd ;
A robe of costly ermine wrapp'd his breast !
Enthroned, sublime, above the wondering
race,
Immortal beauties seem'd to deck his face !
His eye assumed pre-eminence of sway ;
He reign* d the gilded idol of the day ;
Till Death, his dread supremacy to show,
Struck at the vaunting wretch, and laid his scep-
tre low.
Now, rattling o'er the teeming plains afar,
Came glittering Wealth, in his resplendent
car !
His rapid course swift-footed Toil pursued
With sinewy limbs, and brown sun-freckled
breast;
The lord of luxury his vassal view'd,
And, smiling, lifted high his haughty crest !
But, when neglected Toil at length retired,
The short-lived glories of his brow expired ;
Around his eager eyes he roll'd in vain ;
Ingratitude appeared, and claim'd her turn to
reign!
At her approach, the fatal cavern rung :
Loud shouts of horror rent the vaulted stone !
All lesser fiends their heads in sorrow hung ;
Omnipotent in ill, she grasp'd the infernal
throne I
Then Reason mark'd her blest associate fly ;
And shuddering at the scene, re-sought her na-
tive sky !
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
When the dark demons of destructive Ire
No more shall see devoted hosts expire ;
When, o'er the desolated dime, the wise
Shall bid, too late, the sacred olive rise-
Then Justice shall the dreary spot illume
Where Pity lingers on the martyr's tomb ;
And, scattering Sorrow's incence, sighing, say—
** Thy feme, illustrious soul ! shall ne'er decay !"
MONODY
* TO THE MEMORY OP MARIE ANTOINETTE,
QUEEN OP PRANCE,
Written immediately after her execution.
When, the dread scene of death and horror o'er,
' Reason's calm eye Time's tablet shall explore ;
Oh ! then, when wandering on some distant
shore,
Musing o'er scenes of bliss he tastes no more !
The holy exile shall, with up-raised eyes,
Implore, for thee, the rapture of the skies !
Though sad, forlorn, a stranger to repose,
Celestial Faith shall mitigate his woes j^
And Patience, smiling from her spherjT throne,
Shall bid his throbbing heart some solace own !
Yet, as the pious sufferer bends his way,
Cheer' d by the prospects of eternal day,
Oft shall he pour his orisons divine,
Forget his pangs, and only weep for thine !
The pilgrim who, with tearful eye, shall view
The moon's wan lustre on the midnight dew,
As through the lonesome labyrinth he strays,
Sooth'd by her lamp, and guided by its rays,
Shall offer up to Heaven an humble prayer,
(For contrite sighs are ever welcome there !)
That in seraphic realms, thy soul may know
That bliss, inhuman rage denied below !
Ah ! who can trace, nor feel a pang severe,
The dawn of joy that usher 'd thy career !
When, round thy youthful form, divinely gay,
Ecstatic rapture wing'd the hours away?
When, from the perfumed couch of soft repose,
More lustrous than the morn, thy beauty rose !
When all was pleasure, adoration, ease ;
For power was temper'd by the wish to please ;
Where all around thee charm' d the dazzled view,
For ever splendid, yet for ever new ;
Adorn' d with gems to Gallia's sons unknown,
Domestic virtues, glittering round the throne !
Who can reflect, nor drop the tenderest tear
On the dread progress of thy fate severe !
Hurl'd from the loftiest height of human bliss,
To the worst horrors of Despair's abyss !
To bear th' insulting cruelty of those
Who, from thy subjects, to thy tyrants rose !
Tore thy pale darlings from thy panting breast,
And made maternal woes the rabble's jest ;
The bonds of wedded virtue rent in twain,
And Truth's white bosom stampt with False-
hood's stain !
Denied the decent aid of female hands !
No kind domestics wait thy meek commands !
On a straw pallet, in a dungeon laid—
By all suspected, and by all betray'd !
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MONODY.
Yet, 'midst the tortures of tbe direful plan,
Which thrills with horror through the breast of
27
Not all the rage of hell's abhorr'd decree
Could force one supplicating tear from thee !
As the rich floweret on the mountain's side
Unfolds its charms, and blooms with harmless
pride;
Raised 'midst the clouds, to combat every blast ;
Too high for shelter, and too fair to last ;
Awhile, contending with the varying spheres ;
Now Hushing beauties, now adorn'd with
tears;
Still braves the mid-day sun, the chilling night,
Sweet to the sense, and lovely to the sight ;
Nor heeds the torrent, rising o'er its bound ;
Or the dark skies, in tempests gathering round ;
Till from the flinty steep the waters flow,
Pouring destruction o'er the vale below;
And sweeping, with their desolating powers,
The towering cedars and o'erhanging bowers ;
From rock to rock the frothy columns bound,
Deafening calm Nature with the fateful sound ;
Till, by no barrier in its course confined,
It whelms the plain, and leaves no trace behind ;
No waving forest to adorn the scene ;
No hut to tell what once the spot had been ;
No sweet diversity enchants the eye ;
One liquid space reflects the lowering sky ;
While on its troubled surface, spreading wide,
Float the torn fragments of the mountain's
pride;
Till all, celestial bounty gave, defaced,
One dreadful chaos triumphs o'er the waste !—
Such is thy lot, O Gallia ! such the rage
That blurs, with crimson spots, fair Nature's
page!
That leaps the bounds of Reason, and destroys
The law's strong barrier, and the subject's joys;
That roots up all the sacred rights of Truth,
The claims of age, the energies of youth ;
Bids Commerce tremble, Justice hide her scale,
Contention revel, and Revenge prevail,
Religion perish in the guilty mind,
And Devastation riot unconflned !
While att are rulers— off, alas ! are slaves,
Each dreads his fellow, each his fellow braves ;
While in one horrid mass all miseries blend ;
Each shuns his brother, and each fears his friend.
The son, with blood-stain' d faulchion, strikes the
sire—
The parent smiles, to see the son expire !
Against his lord the vassal wields his spear,
The vaunting atheist mocks the vestal's tear !
The lawless idiot lifts his ruthless arm,
To tear from science every graceful charm !
While Genius from the maddening tumult flies,
Weeps o'er her withering bays, and seeks the
skies!
Far o'er the globe, from all his kindred driven,
Behold the sacred minister of Heaven !
The pious pastor, wandering o'er the earth,
Of mind enlightened, and of noblest birth ;
With whose proud race the proudest virtues
came,
To prove their rank their secondary claim;
Who, 'midst the duties of religious life,
Shrunk from the clamours of domestic strife.
What is his lot?— To weep in some lone bower,
And count new sorrows with each passing hour ;
To view the radiant morn with aching eyes,
O'er the far distant promontory rise;
Diffusing bliss o'er Nature's children gay,
Who laugh and labour through the peaceful day ;
Who fear no ruthless hand to check their joy,
No mandate dire, existence to destroy ;
Who, bless'd with conscious innocence, can
smile, [guile ;
Unstain'd with blood, and unreproach'd with
All the long day the task of toil endure,
Contented, simple, peaceful, and secure.
To see the infants, like fair branches, rise,
The cherish'd offspring of serenest skies ;
While the rough parent, like the oak, shall last,
To nurse their tender beauties 'midst the blast;
Till, nourish'd to perfection, they aspire
To match the sturdy virtues of their sire.—
Turn to the beauteous martyr ! Austria's pride I
Epitome of all— to worth allied !
Mark, in her altered and distracted mien,
The fatal ensigns of the pangs within ;
See those fair tresses on her shoulders flow
In silvery waves, that mock the Alpine snow.
Where are their waving braids of glossy gold,
That crown'd her brow, in many a silky fold?
That brow, so wither'd by Aftliction's blast,
So stampt with Age, before her prime was past
Where are the graces of that 'witching form ?
Torn from their home, and scatter'd to the
storm ! [shine ;
Those eyes like sapphire gems were wont to
Bright beaming samples of their native mine—
What are they now ? closed in the sleep of death !
Their blaze extinguish'd by Rebellion's breath !
Yet, as the tempest threaten'd their abode,
A stream celestial from their radiance flow'd,
Like setting stars, they left their humid spheres,
And their last fainting lustre gleam'd through
tears .
Oh ! I have seen her, like a sun, sublime, .
Diffusing glory on the wings of Time :
And, as revolving seasons own his flight,
Marking each brilliant minute with delight.
Yet not to pleasure only was she prone ;
She made the miseries of the poor her own.
No ostentation lessen'd Pity's meed-
Unseen she gave, and silence seal'd the deed*
She sought no plaudits from obsequious pride ;
She paid herself— for nature was her guide.
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28
MRS, ROBINSON'S POEMS.
For conscious rapture, to the tottering shed
Oft would she fiy, to bless the mourner's bed ;
There, bending o'er the aged widow's form,
With smiles celestial, chase the wintry storm ;
Heal the stung bosom with compassion's tear !
Pour balmy counsel in the startled ear !
Fan, with her sighs, the fever of the brain ;
And, by partaking, lessen every pain .'
Shunn'd be the fiend, who, in these dreadful
times
Would brand her memory with infernal crimes ;
Shunn'd be the monster, who, with recreant
art,
Beyond the grave, would hurl detraction's dart !
With sacrilegious hands, relentless tear
The blood-steep'd laurel, newly planted there !
For, though insulted, massacred, defamed,
The laurel, still, her peerless virtues claim'd !
While, round the rugged sod, dread silence
reigns,
The cherub, Truth, obliterates its stains.
Then let the muse her weary sorrows trace,
And candour blot the records of disgrace !
Nursed in the cradle of imperial state,
Her infant dreams proclaim'd a milder fate !
Enchanting visions soothed her opening mind ;
Though young, enlighten'd; and though gay,
refined!
Succeeding years rolled on ; and, as she grew,
Each fleeting hour presented raptures new !
Fresh as the breeze that fans the breast of May,
She scattered perfumes on the face of day !
Pride of her royal line, in youth's soft grace,
She bloom'd, the loveliest blossom of her race !
Transplanted from the bower of sweet repose,
With Gallia's lilies blending Austria's rose ;
Formed to adorn a cottage or a throne ;
For all that soothed the senses was her own !
A stranger, from her native land, she came ;
Her dowry beauty, and her passport fame !
Too young to play the subtle courtier's part,
She charm'd all eyes, and gladden' d every heart !
Too innocent, deceptive wiles to plan !
(Her power acknowledged, ere her reign began,)
So exquisitely fair, so mildly gay,
She made the wisest converts to her sway !
To rule, she sought not ; for obedience hung
On the soft accents of her tuneful tongue.
Her smile could guide the stubborn heart, or
move
The soul of apathy to thrills of love !
Each playful action spoke the fire of youth ;
Her blush was innocence ! her voice was truth !
She trod the flowery paths of bliss supreme ;
Delight her guide, and gratitude her theme !
Till, 'midst its sweets, the serpent, envy, grew,
Hating her charms, and sickening attheir view !
Pre-eminent she shone ! — Each lesser light
Shrunk from her radiance, in the glooms of
night :
Yet, like malignant stars, with potent power,
Flamed the fierce demons of the vengeful hour ;
And scattered 'midst the storm their borrow'd
rays,
To prove the sun ^
i set that bid them blaze !
First, low complaining murmurs echo'd
round, [sound ;
While pleased Contention caught the sullen
Then while the mischief conjured up Despair,
Each thought his wrongs too infinite to bear
Too rash to follow Reason's sober plan,
They marr'd the triumph they had scarce began !
Now, mark the howling tempest far and wide!
Mark, on the winds infuriate spirits ride !
O'er the proud fabric and the painted dome,
I shadows spread impervious
gloom ; [hand,
Death stalks, unmask' d, beside the scepter'd
While round the regal chair dark demons stand ;
With cries of murder, now the palace shakes,
And all is ruin, ere Reflection wakes ;
Where the rich banquet met the dazzled eye,
A thousand sheathless poniards glittering lie j
While the loud cannons roar destruction round,
Triumphant Mischief smiles at every sound ;
And Malice pilfers all the sweets of rest,
And plants the thorn of Woe in beauty's breast.
For crimes long past, when erst Oppression's
hand
Drove weeping Freedom from the Gallic land ;
When Truth fled, trembling, and subdued with
fears;
And godlike Virtue only shone in tears ;
For woes long past, insatiate Ire decreed,
The just should fall ; the guiltless heart should
bleed !
That heart which shudder'd at recorded crimes
Stampt on the tablet of disastrous times !
Which shrunk, aghast, at every dreadful view-
That show'd past centuries, blackening as they
flew!
When recreant satellites exulting shone,
Their light a meteor, and their sphere the
throne!
Was it for those the last illustrious race
Wash'd, with their blood, the page of dire Dis-
grace!
Was it for those an Alien's heart was torn
With taunting Insult's agonizing thorn !
While low she bow'd, in withering graces drest,
Truth in her eye, and valour in her breast !
Was it for those ill-fated Louis fell,
'Midst the vile clamours of the rabble's yell?
Forced from his shrieking infants ! and denied
A parent's comfort, and a parent's pride !
Dragg'd to the fatal agonizing goal ;
His only crime— the meekness of his soul !
For, ah ! while memory ponders o'er the page
That marks the regal line from age to age,
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Diatracted Gallia ! thou shalt never Bee
So rare a scion from to frail a tree !
Mark the last scene of his disastrous state,
When patient Virtue braved the lance of Fate !
When, on the scaffold, crimson'd o'er with
blood,
The monarch, husband, parent, martyr, stood
Amidst his subjects, now his foes severe ;
No pitying friend his parting sigh to hear !
£'en then, high towering o'er all human woes,
Above himself the smiling victim rose ;
And, braving human sorrow's vengeful rod
Breath'd his last prayer, and gave his soul to
God!
Thus the proud eagle, whose strong pinions
soar,
With dauntless eye day's sovereign to explore,
Sees all around transcendent glory blaze ;
The world beneath, an atom to his gaze :
Yet through the airy regions grandly flies,
And drinks the viewless nectar of the skies :
In the bland space he wields his lordly flight,
And riots in the plenitude of light;
Till thickening vapours choke the fostering
stream,
Veil the faint stars, and shroud the orient beam.
Swift to the world beneath his pinions sail,
Where the tall cliff hangs lowering o'er the
vale;
Where, rock'd upon the forest's waving crest,
He left his offspring in their mother's breast.
There, too, he finds the ruthless tempest's power,
The blue-wing'd lightning, and the whelming
shower ;
There, the shrill blast the rifted pine lays low,
While down the rocks the mingling cataracts
flow;
His darling mate, his little unfledged brood,
Dash'd on the foamy bosom of the flood !
Load thunder mock th' aerial sovereign's cries,
Till, 'midst the dreadful din, he soars, and dies !
Now, ere the muse her mournful task resigns,
And the last cypress garland fondly twines ;
Ere the faint emblems of her grief sincere
Shall fade beneath Reflection's frequent tear ;—
She turns, with curious eye, the woes to trace,
Heap'd on the breathing sufferers of thy race ;
Who, daily pining in a dungeon's gloom,
Anticipate the silence of the tomb !
Who, all the lire-long day, unseen, alone,
Four the deep cadence of the tottering groan ;
Start, if the winds along their prison creep ;
Slumber, to dream of death, and wake to weep !
Who, each new dawn, behold a glimmering ray
Shed through their drear abode a doubtful day ;
And when the evening sun, with purpling light,
Proclaims the coming shade of fearful night,
MONODY. 29
Behold, with fancy's all-creating eyes,
The bleeding spectres of their kindred rise !
Mark, from each bosom gash'd, a crimson tide,
Life's tepid fountain from its channels glide !
The widowed mother casts a wistful gaze
On the sweet darlings of her splendid days ;
On her pale cheek the frozen tear still dwells,
Like April dew upon the snow-drop's bells ;
Her quivering lips, in murmurs, seem to say,
" I come, my cherubs, from the realms of day !
Thy father triumphs in the spheres of rest,
And shares the endless transports of the blest !
There, far removed from Fate's disastrous
frown,
He lives, possessed of an immortal crown !"
Then, as the feeble infants wondering stand,
The fleeting spectre waves its snowy hand !
The moaning wind through every crevice blows ;
Down the damp wall the midnight vapour
flows:
On their cold flinty couch, with tearful eye,
Clasp'd in each other's arms, the mourners lie ;
They tremble, whisper, sigh, yet fear to weep,
Till nature, faint with anguish, sinks in sleep !
See, in the neighbouring cell,* a withering
form
Lists the fierce bowlings of the midnight storm ;
Till, through her prison lattice, she descries
The opening radiance of the morning skies !
Upon the iron window's triple grate
The chirping red -breast hails his freezing mate ;
Spreads his weak wing to meet the sun's faint
ray,
And sweetly twitters forth his matin lay :
While the fair victim of supreme despair
Beholds the free-born commoners of air ;
Envies their happy lot, and feebly cries,
Ye little harmless travellers of the skies,
Why quit your leafy bowers, your verdant plains,
And wing your flight to Misery's dread do-
mains ?
Why, from the breezy hill's enamell'd side,
To these sad towers your whirring pinions
guide?
Hence, ye poorminstrels ; hence, nor listen here,
Where pining Sorrow drinks her frequent tear;
Where Vengeance bares her never- weary fang,
And smiles, insulting, on the sufferer's pang ;
Where each corroding torment mocks relief,
And death, death only, ends the reign of grief!
Is there, in all the legends of past times,
An era blacken'd with such wanton crimes ?
* Princess Elisabeth, the unoffending victim of po-
pular frenzy. Her only crime was that of being
sister to the unhappy monarch.
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so
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Such barbarous mischiefs! sweeping from the
earth
Religion, talents, innocence, and worth !
The wise, the good, the brave—all feel its force !
Uncheck'd by reason, torpid to remorse.
All smear'd with gore, pale Liberty appears,
Her smiles contending with repentant tears ;
No more her hand fair flowerets scatters round ;
Her faulchion steams from many a recent
wound :
O'er shatter'd pyramids she maddening flies,
Power in her arm, and murder in her eyes ;
Scared by the clamours of the furious rage,
She spares not worth nor genius, sex nor age !
All records perish by her rash decree ;
The wreaths of valour, pride of Chivalry ;
The sculptor's art, the boast of many a clime,
( Snatch'd from the desolating grasp of time) ;
The painter's glowing canvass, which displays
The finish'd study of laborious days-
Heaped in one sacrilegious ruin lie,
Feeding the flame that menaces the sky ;
While Ignorance points the victims of its ire,
And loads with offerings the insatiate fire !
Deep dying murmurs float upon the gale,
And every zephyr bears some wo-fraught tale !
Here, widows pine, not daring to complain ;
There, orphans languish for a parent slain ;
The mountain peasant quits his lone retreat,
His clay-built cottage and his vineyard neat ;
No more, at eve's approach, his infants run,
While the vale reddens with the sinking sun,
To greet their weary sire, whose labours hard
Meet, in their dear embrace, their sweet reward !
No more, when winter desolates the grove,
He listens to the voice of wedded love ;
Trims the day hearth, and, as the faggots
blaze,
Chants the old ditty of his grandsire's days ;
While bis fond mate the homely meal prepares,
Smiles on his board and dissipates his cares j
No more, amidst the simple village throng,
He joins the sportive dance, the merry song ;
Now, torn from those, he quits his native wood,
Braves the dread front of war, and pants for blood !
Now, to his reap-hook and his pastoral reed,
The crimson'd pike and glittering sword suc-
ceed !
His russet garb, now changed for trappings vain ;
His rushy pillow, for the tented plain j
No more his matin song's melodious note
Along the mountain's breezy side shall float;
No more his board, with luscious fruits supply* d,
Shall mock the banquet of luxurious pride ;
No more sweet slumbers bless his midnight
hours ; [flowers ;
No more Hope strews his daily path with
From his lorn breast all earthly comforts fly ;
He hates to live— yet more, he fears to die !
Now, when the tardy day begins to rise,
And short-lived slumbers quit his feverish eyes,
Fancy, with agonizing power, displays
The peaceful comforts of his happier days ;
Shows, on the pallet of his former rest,
His infants moaning on their mother's breast !
Pinch'd by pale Famine, sinking to the grave ;
No food to nourish, and no friend to save !
Ah ! then, he cries half maddening with despair,
" Is this the freedom I was call'd to share?
Where is my clay-built hut? where wont to
reign
The little monarch of love's free domain,
My smiling partner clasp'd me to her breast,
My infants bless'd me, ere I sunk to reel !"
Turn to the nobles ; there let Pity view
The many suffering for the guilty few.
Perish the wretch who, sanction' d by his birth,
Presumes to persecute the child of worth ;
Perish the wretch who tarnishes descent
By the vile vaunting of a life ill spent ;
Who sullies proud propinquity of )>lood,
Yet frowns indignant on the low-born good ;
Who shields his recreant bosom with a name,
And first in infamy, is last in fame.
Yet let Reflection's eye discriminate
The difference 'twixt the mighty and the great.
Virtue is still illustrious, still sublime,
In every station, and in every dime.
Truth can derive no eminence from birth,
Rich in the proud supremacy of Worth ;
Its blest dominion vast and unconfined,
Its crown eternal, and its throne the mind.
Then Heaven forbid that Prejudice should scan.
With jaundiced eye the dignities of man ;
That Persecution's agonizing rod
Should boldly smite the " noblest work of God ; "
That rank should be a crime, and Genius hurl'd
A mournful wanderer on the pitying world.
Yet Heaven forbid that Ignorance should rise
On the dread basis where Religion dies ;
That Liberty, immortal as the spheres,
Should steep her laurel in a nation's tears.
Oh, falsely named ! Does Liberty require
The child should perish for the guilty sire ?
Does Liberty inspire the atheist's breast
To mock his God, and make his laws a jest ?
Does Liberty with barbarous fetters bind
Her first-born hope, the freedom of the mind ?
Hence bold usurper of that heaven- taught power
Which wings with ecstacy man's transient hour ;
Which bids the eye of Reason cloudless shine,
And gives Mortality a charm divine.
'Midst the wild winds, the lordly cedar towers ;
Progressive days invigorate its powers ;
The earlier branches, withering as they spread,
Round the firm root their coarsest foliage shed ;
While the proud tree its verdant head rears high,
Waves to the blast* and seems to pierce the sky ;
Till the rich trunk, matured by lengthening
years, [spheres j
Through all their wondrous changes, braves the
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MONODY.
Flings its rich fragrance on the gales that sweep
The humid forehead of the mountain's steep ;
Mocks the fierce rage of elemental war,
The bolt's red sulphur, and the thunder's jar ;
And, when around the shatter 'd fragments lie,
The stricken victims of th' infuriate sky-
Amidst the wrecks of Nature seems to climb
Supremely grand, and awfully sublime !
So heaven-taught Reason, whispering to the
sense,
In Nature's pure persuasive eloquence,
Points out, amidst creation's mazy plan, -
The vast, the varying miseries of man :
Then, as Experience comes with piercing eye,
From his stern gaze delusive visions fly ;
Then radiant Knowledge rashes to his view,
Spurns the deceptive, and adopts the true ;
Tears Folly's tinsel trappings from his breast,
Which shines in Truth's invulnerable vest ;
Thus arm'd against the shafts of life he goes,
Smiles at their menace, and resists their woes ;
While on his mind, in conscious virtue great,
The shield of Reason blunts the lance of fate !
Immortal genius ! let the votive line,
The Muse's laurel, and her fame, be thine ;
For thou shalt live when Pride's indignant eye
Closed in eternal solitude shall lie. [day
When those who flutter'* through their little
Shall, like their follies and their names, decay;
When the faint memory of inferior souls
Down the dark channel of oblivion rolls—
Thou shalt survive. Then let not Envy's frown
Blast the proud trophies that compose thy
crown:
31
Let not the poison of a reptile's sting
Contaminate the lustre of thy wing ;
But from each flaming plume indulgent give
A pitying ray, to bid the insects live.
Trace, if thou canst, one straggling spark of
worth,
One gleaming atom to adorn their birth ;
For little virtues dazzle in the proud,
As stars shine lustrous 'midst a vast of cloud.
Then, Genius, let the toilsome task be thine,
To labour in the dark precarious mine ;
And if, amidst the chaos, thou shouldst find
One great, one beauteous attribute of mind,
To twine round Merit's brow the wreath of
fame,
And give nobility a loftier name !
Ill-fated Queen ! then let the tribute just,
The poet's numbers consecrate thy bust .
And when new ages shall the tale unfold,
On the red page of massacre enroll' d,
Philanthropy, with shuddering heart shall
trace
The storms that bow'd the lilies of thy race !
Yet, 'midst the desolating gloom descry
Transcendent chaplets that shall never die!
The wonders of thy mind shall History own ;
The brightest gems that glisten'd round thy
throne;
Which gave thee charms beyond the glare of
power
To brave thy foes, and gild thy latest hour !
And when thy weary soul, on wings sublime,
Sought its dear partner in a purer clime.
Thy sufferings left on Truth's recording page
An awful lesson for each future age !
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ODES.
ODE
TO THE MUSE.
0, let me seize thy pen sublime
That paints, in melting dulcet rhyme,
The glowing power, the magic art,
Th' ecstatic raptures of the heart ;
Soft Beauty's timid smile serene,
The dimples of Love's sportive mein ;
The sweet descriptive tale to trace ;
To picture Nature's winning grace ;
To steal the tear from Pity's eye ;
To catch the sympathetic sigh ;
teach me, with swift lightning's force
To watch wild Passion's varying course ;
To mark th' enthusiast's vivid fire,
Or calmly touch thy golden lyre,
While gentle Reason mildly sings
Responsive to the trembling strings.
Sweet nymph, enchanting Poetry !
1 dedicate my mind to thee.
Oh ! from thy bright Parnassian bowers
Descend, to bless my sombre hours ;
Bend to the earth thy eagle- wing,
And on its glowing plumage bring
Blythe Fancy, from whose burning eye
The young ideas sparkling fly :
O come, and let us fondly stray
Where rosy Health shall lead the way,
And soft Favonius lightly spread
A perfumed carpet as we tread ;
Ah ! let us from the world remove,
The calm forgetfulness to prove,
Which at the still of evening's close
Lulls the tired peasant to repose ;
Repose, whose balmy joys o'er-pay
The sultry labours of the day.
And when the blue-eyed dawn appears,
Just peeping through her veil of tears ;
Or blushing opes her silver gate,
And on its threshold stands elate,
And flings her rosy mantle far
O'er every loitering dewy star ;
And calls the wanton breezes forth,
And sprinkles diamonds o'er the earth ;
While in the green wood's shade profound
The insect race, with buzzing sound,
Flit o'er the rill— a glittering train,
Or swarm along the sultry plain ;
Then in sweet converse let us rove
Where in the thyme-embroider 'd grove,
The musky air its fragrance pours
Upon the silvery scatter'd showers j ,
To hail soft Zephyr, as she goes
To fan the dew-drop from the rose;
To shelter from the scorching beam.
And muse beside the rippling stream.
Or when, at twilight's placid hour,
We stroll to some sequester'd bower,
And watch the haughty sun retire -
Beneath his canopy of fire ;
While slow the dusky clouds enfold
Day '8 crimson curtains fringed with gold,
And o'er the meadows faintly fly
Pale shadows of the purpling sky ;
While softly o'er ,the pearl-deck'd plain
Cold Dian leads the sylvan train ;
In mazy dance and sportive glee,
Sweet Muse, I'll fondly turn to thee ;
And thou shalt deck my couch with flowers,
And wing with joy my silent hours.
When Sleep, with downy hand, shall
spread
A wreath of poppies round my head ;
Then Fancy on her wing sublime,
Shall waft me to the sacred clime
Where my enlighten' d sense shall view,
Through ether, realms of azure hue,
That flame where Shakspeare used to fill,
With matchless fire, his " golden quill."
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OX>BS.
While from Its point bright Genius caught
The wit supreme, the glowing thought,
The magic tone, that sweetly hung
About the numbers which he sung.
Then wfll I skim the floating air,
On a light couch of gossamer, •
While with my wonder-aching eye
I contemplate the spangled sky,
And hear the vaulted roof repeat
The song of Inspiration sweet ;
While round the winged cherub train
Shall iterate the aery strain ;
Swift through my quivering nerves shall float
The tremours of each thrilling note;
And every eager sense confess
Ecstatic transport's wild excess ;
Till, waking from the glorious dream,
I hafl the morn's refulgent beam.
83
Dear maid! of ever-varying mien,
Exulting, pensive, gay, serene,
Now, in transcendent pathos drest,
Now, gentle as the turtle's breast ;
Where'er thy feathery steps shall lead,
To side-long hill, or flowery mead ;
To sorrow's coldest, darkest cell,
Or where, by Cynthia's glimmering ray,
The dapper fairies frisk and play
About some cowslip's golden bell ;
And, in their wanton frolic mirth,
Pluck the young daisies from the earth,
To canopy their tiny heads*
And decorate their verdant beds;
While, to the grasshopper's shrill tune,
They quaff filiations to the moon,
From acorn goblets, amply fill'd
With dew, from opening flowers distill'd—
Or when the lurid tempest pours,
From its dark urn impetuous showers ;
Or from its brow's terrific frown
Hurls the pale murderous lightnings down;
To thy enchanting breast IH spring,
And shield me with thy golden wing.
Or when, amidst ethereal Are,
Thou strik'st thy DeBa Cruscan lyre,
Whale round, to catsh the heavenly song,
Myriads of wondering seraphs throng;
Whether thy harp's empassion'd strain
Pours forth an Ovid's tender pain,
Or in Pindaric flights sublime
Re-echoes thorough the starry clime;
Thee I'll adore, transcendent guest,
And west thee to my burning breast.
But if thy magic powers impart
One soft sensation to the heart,
If thy warm precepts can dispense
One thrilling transport o'er my sense ;
Oh ! keep, thy gifts, and let me fly,
In Apathy's cold arm at dis.
ODE
TO DELL A CRUSCA.
Eni.ighten'd patron of the sacred lyre !
Whose ever-varying, ever- witching song
Revibrates on the heart
With magic thrilling touch,
Till every nerve, with quivering throb divine,
In maddening tumults, owns thy wondrous
power;
For well thy dulcet notes
Can wind the mazy song,
In labyrinth of wild fantastic form ;
Or with empassion'd pathos woo the soul
With sounds more sweetly mild
Than Sappho's plaint forlorn,
When bending o'er the waves she sung her woes,
And pitying Echo hover'd o'er the deep,
Till in their coral caves
The tuneful Nereids wept.
Ah ! whither art thou flown? where pours thy
song?
The model and the pride of British bards !
Sweet star of Fancy's orb,
" O tell me, tell me, where ?"
Say, dost thou waste it on the viewless air
That bears it to the confines of high heaven ?
Or does it court the meed
Of proud pre-eminence?
Or steals it o'er the glittering sapphire wave,
Calming the tempest with its silver sounds ?
Or does it charm to* love
The fond believing maid ?
Or does it hover o'er the Alpine steep,
Or, softly breathing under myrtle shades,
With sympathy divine,
Solace the child of wo?
Where'er thou art, oh ! let thy gentle strain
Again with magic power delight mine ear,
Untutor'd in the spells
And mysteries of song.
Then, on the margin of the deep I'll muse,
And bless the rocking bark ordain'd to bear
My sad heart o'er the wave,
From this ungrateful i&le ;
When the wan Queen of night, with languid eye,
Peeps o'er the mountain's heady or through the
vale
Illumes the glassy brook,
Or dew- besprinkled heath,
Or with her crystal lamp directs the feet
Of the benighted traveller, cold and sad,
Through the long forest drear,
And pathless labyrinth,
To the poor peasant's hospitable cot,
For ever open to the wretch forlorn ;
O then I'll think on thee,
And iterate thy strain*
And chant thy matchless numbers o'er and o'er ;
And I will court the sullen ear of night,
E
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84
To bear the rapt'rous sound,
On her dark shadowy wing,
To where, encircled by the sacred Nine,
The lyre awakes the never-dying song I
Now, bard admired, farewell !
The white sail flutters loud,
The gaudy streamers lengthen in the gale,
Far from my native shore I bend my way;
Yet, as my aching- eye
Shall view the lessening cliff,
Till its stupendous head shall scarce appear
Above the surface of the swelling deep,
I'll snatch a ray of hope,
For Hope's the lamp divine
That lights and vivifies the fainting soul,
With ecstacies beyond the powers of song !
That ere I reach those banks
Where the loud Tiber flows,
Or milder Arno slowly steals along,
To the soft music of the summer breeze,
The wafting wing of time
May bear this last adieu,
This wild, untutor'd picture of the heart,
To him whose magic verse inspired the strain.
MRS ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Nor thou, star-crested nymph ! refuse
The offerings of an untaught Muse,
Who twines, amidst uncultivated bowers,
A small, but fragrant wreath, of Nature's sim-
plest flowers.
ODE
TO GENIUS.
Now by th' Aonian nymphs inspired
By glowing emulation fired !
Of thee I'll sing.— Illustrious maid !
In' peerless majesty array 'd !
Who, all creative, all sublime,
First sprang from the ethereal clime,
To bid enraptured fancy trace
The bright infinity of space,
Where Fame of pure celestial birth
A starry wreath prepares to crown Im-
mortal Worth !
Blest Genius! power divine!
Now shall the votive song be thine
Nor thou the pensive muse disdain,
Who oft, by fancy led, shall rove
To soft Arcadia's myrtle grove,
And tune the pastoral reed or chant the sylvan i
strain.
Or could her trembling hand aspire
To wake the loud resounding lyre,
Where Pindus rears its haughty crest,
By thy immortal laurels drest !
Or on Parnassian heights sublime
Snatch from the passing wing of Time
A plume, that smiling Hope might lave
Deep in the Heliconian wave !
For thee her burning hand should fling
Ecstatic measures o'er the bounding string !
Proud parent of supreme delight !
Thou Sun ! from whose rich source
The lustrous stream of mental sight
Points to mortality a glorious course !
'Tis thine with magic sweet control
To guide the timid sensate soul ;
To mark, on Truth's enlighten'd page,
In every clime, in every age,
How empty earthly power appears,
A glittering phantom, fraught with fears;
How dark the rugged paths of life ;
How planted with the thorns of strife ;
How paltry wealth ; how false the glare
That dazzles round the regal chair;
How fragile Beauty's blush ; how poor
The Miser, 'midst his countless store ;
When o'er the labouring sons of clay
Thou scorn'st to spread sublime thy broad efful-
gent ray I
O Genius ! at thy view,
Low in the dust, the grovelling crew
Fall, stricken like the summer fly,
'Midst torrid radiance doom'd to die;
Whilst thou, whose towering mind
No base or sordid spells can bind,
Far, far from human wo canst rise,
To purer joys, to brighter skies !
As the triumphant eagle bends his flight,
To lave his lordly wing in floods of burning
light!
Oft have I seen thee, sportive, wild,
Frolic Nature's playful child,
With infant sweetness, weaving boughs,
To hang on fickle Fancy's brows !
Then wouldst thou snatch the rose-deck'd
lyre,
And with thy airy fingers play,
In measures madly gay,
A song that might e'en Apathy inspire !
Then, sated with the 'witching sound,
Dash thy rapt lyre upon the ground,
And o'er thy gaudy wreath
Such strains of tender pity breathe,
So soft, so touching, so alluring,
All the wounds of Passion curing,
That maddening rage itself, subdued,
Listening stood, in melting mood !
And. Folly, wondering at thy powers,
Dropp'd from, her giddy hand her wreath of
poisonous flowers !
I've seen thee, spurning solemn fools,
Mock the vaunted lore of schools ;
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ODES.
35
And laugh to scorn the pedant's art,
That hides in Learning's garb, the dull deceitful
heart!
I've seen thee, dress' d in awful pride,
With calm-brow'd Wisdom by thy side,
Unfolding precepts richly fraught
With sense acute ! and depth of thought !
Decking the hoary front of Time
With many a sober wreath, sublime !
While Eloquence, her store unbound,
Scatter' d her fairest blossoms round !
And History, with recording finger, traced
Scenes by expiring Ignorance half-effaced ;
Whilst thou from cold Oblivion's cave
Let the pale shadows of the sainted brave !
Ah ! then I've seen thee stamp each name
On the imperishable rolls of Fame !
And, smiling o'er the consecrated page,
. Anticipate the boast of many a future age !
I've seen thee through the soul diffuse
TV electric fire that warms the muse !
When o'er the poet's breast
Thou fling'st the sunny vest ;
And stoop'st this throbbing brow to bind
With wings, to waft the soaring mind
Beyond the mists of mortal day !
While from thy piercing eye,
Resplendent as its parent sky,
A stream of light shot forth, to mark his glo-
rious way !
Ah ! lost to bliss are those,
Low-thoughted ! dull of soul !
Who, plodding through life's weedy woes,
Ne'er felt the thrilling power
That marks the intellectual hour;
Nor, where Pierian fountains roll,
Panted to taste the clear immortal wave
That heals the wounds of Fate, and flows be-
yond the grave !
ODE
TO REFLECTION.
1 O, tell me, what are life's best Joys ?
Are they not visions that decay,
Sweet honey'd poisons, gilded toys,
Vain glittering baubles of a day ?
O say, what shadow do they leave behind,
Save the sad vacuum of a sated mind ?
Borne on the eagle-wings of Fame,
Man soars above calm Reason's sway,
" Vaulting Ambition" mocks each tender
claim,
Plucks the dear bonds of social life away;
As o'er the vanquish'd slave she wields her spear,
Compassion turns aside— Reflection drops a
tear.
Behold the wretch whose sordid heart,
Steep'd in Content's oblivious balm,
Secure in Luxury's bewitching calm,
Repels pale Misery's touch, and mocks Afflic-
tion's smart ;
Unmoved he marks the bitter tear,
In vain the plaints of wo his thoughts assail,
The bashful mourner's piteous tale
Nor melts his flinty soul, nor vibrates on his ear.
O blest Reflection ! let thy magic power
Awake his torpid sense, his slumbering thought,
Tell him Adversity's unpitied hour
A brighter lesson gives than stoics taught :
Tell him that wealth no blessing can im-
part, [heart.
So sweet as Pity's tear— that bathes the wounded
Go tell the vain, the insolent, and fair,
That life's best days are only days of care;
That Beauty, fluttering like a painted fly,
Owes to the spring of youth its transient
die; [away,
When winter comes, its charms shall fade
And the poor insect wither in decay :
Go bid the giddy phantom learn from thee,
That Virtue only braves mortality.
Then come, Reflection, soft-eyed maid!
I know thee, and I prize thy charms ;
Come, in thy gentlest smiles array'd,
And I will press thee in my eager arms ;
Keep from my aching heart the fiend Despair,
Snatch from my brow her thorn, and plant thy
olive there.
thou ! whose sober precepts can control
The wild impatience of the troubled soul,
6weet maid serene ! whose all consoling power
Awakes to calm delight the lingering hour,
! hear thy votary's ardent prayer !
Chase from my anguish'd mind corroding care,
Steal through the burning pulses of my brain,
Calm sorrow to repose, and lull the throb of
pain!
ODE TO ENVY.
Deip in th' abyss where frantic horror 'bidet,
In thickest mists of vapours fell,
Where wily serpents hissing glare
And the dark demon of Revenge resides,
i
S
36
MRS. ROBIKSOlt'S POEMS.
At midnight's murky hour
Thy origin began :
Rapacious Malice wai thy sire ;
Thy dam the sullen witch Despair ;
Thy nurse, insatiate Ire.
The Fates conspired their ills to twine
About thy heart's infected shrine ;
They gave thee each disastrous spell,
Each desolating power,
To blast the fairest hopes of man.
Soon as thy fatal birth was known,
From her unhallow'd throne
With ghastly smile pale Hecate sprang ;
Thy hideous form the sorceress press'd
With kindred fondness to her breast ;
Her haggard eye
Shot forth a ray of transient joy,
While through the infernal shades exulting cla-
mours rang.
Above thy fellow-fiends thy tyrant hand
Grasp' d with resistless force supreme com-
mand:
The vast terrific crowd
Before thy iron sceptre bow'd.
New, seated in thy ebon save,
About thy throne relentless furies rave ;
A wreath of ever- wounding thorn
Thy scowling brows encompass round,
Thy heart by gnawing vultures torn,
Thy meagre limbs with deathless scorpions
bound :
Thy black associates, torpid Ignorance,
And pining Jealousy — with eye askance,
With savage rapture execute thy will.
And strew the paths of life with every torturing
ill.
Nor can the sainted dead escape thy rage ;
Xhy vengeance haunts the silent grave,
Thy taunts insult the ashes of the brave ;
While proud Ambition weeps thy rancour to
assuage.
The laurels round the poet's bust,
Twined by the liberal hand of Taste,
By thy malignant grasp defaced,
Fade to their native dust :
Thy ever- watchful eye no labour tires,
Beneath thy venom'd touch the angel Truth ex-
pires.
When in thy petrifying car
rhe scaly dragons waft thy form,
rhen, swifter, deadlier far
JThan the keen lightning's lance,
That wings its way across the yelling storm,
Thy barbed shafts fly whizzing round,
While every withering glance
T nfiicts a cureless wound.
Thy giant-arm with ponderous blow
Hurls Genius from her glorious height,
Bends the fair front of Virtue low,
And meanly pilfers every pure delight.
Thy hollow voice the sense appals,
Thy vigilance the mind inthrals;
Rest hast thou hone ! By night, by 4ay,
Thy jealous ardour seeks for prey-
Nought can restrain thy swift career ;
Thy smile derides the sufferer's wrongs ;
Thy tongue the slanderer's tale prolongs ;
Thy thirst imbibes the victim's tear ;
Thy breast recoils from friendship's flame ;
Sickening thou hear'st the trump of Fame ;
Worth gives to thee the direst pang ;
The lover's rapture wounds thy heart,
The proudest efforts of prolific art
Shrink from thy poisonous fang.
In vain the sculptor's labouring hand
Calls fine proportion from the Parian stone ;
In vain the minstrel's chords command
The soft vibrations of seraphic tone ;
For swift thy violating arm
Tears from perfection every charm :
Nor rosy Youth, nor Beauty's smiles,
Thy unrelenting rage beguiles ;
Thy breath contaminates the fairest name,
And binds the guiltless brow with ever-blister-
ing shame.
ODE
TO HEALTH.
Come, bright-eyed maid,
Pure offspring of the tranquil mind,
Haste, my feverish temples bind
With olive wreaths of emerald hue,
Steep'd in morn's ethereal dew,
Where in mild Helvetia's shade,
Blushing summer round her flings
Warm gales and sunny showers that hang upon
her wings.
I'll seek thee in Italia's bowers,
Where, supine on beds of flowers,
Melody's soul-touching throng
Strike the soft lute or trill the melting song :
Where blithe Fancy, queen of pleasure,
Pours each luxuriant treasure.
For thee I'll climb the breezy hill,
While the balmy dews distil
Odours from the budding thorn,
Dropp'd from the lustrous lids of morn ;
Who, starting from her shadowy bed,
Binds her gold fillet round the mountain's
head.
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CDES
There I'll press from kerbs and dowers
Juices Mess'4 with opiate powers,
Whose magic potency can heal
The throb of agonizing pain,
And through the purple swelling vein
With subtle influence steal :
Heaven opes for thee its aromatic store,
To bathe each languid gasping pore ;
Bat where, O where, shall cherish' d sorrow
find
The lenient balm to soothe the feeling mind.
O memory ! busy barbarous foe,
At thy fell touch I wake to wo :
Alas, the flattering dream is o'er,
From thee the bright illusions fly,
Thou bidst the glittering phantoms die,
And Hope, and Youth, and Fancy, charm no
more.
No more for me the tip-toe Spring
Drops flowerets from her infant wing ;
For me in vain the wild thyme's bloom
Through the forest flings perfume ;
In vain I climb th' embroider'd bill
To breathe the clear autumnal air ;
In vain I quaff the lucid rill
Since jocund Health delights not there
To greet my heart : no more I view,
With sparkling eye, the silvery dew
Sprinkling May's tears upon the folded rose,
As low it droops its young and blushing head,
Press'd by grey twilight to its mossy bed :
No more I lave amidst the tide,
Or bound along the tufted grove,
Or o'er enamell'd meadows rove,
Where, on Zephyr's pinions, glide
Salubrious airs that waft the day's repose.
Lightly o'er the yellow heath
Steals thy soft and fragrant breath,
Breath inhaled from musky flowers,
Newly bath'd in perfumed showers.
See the rosy-finger'd morn
Opes her bright refulgent eye,
Hills and valleys to adorn,
While from her burning glance the scatter' d
vapours fly.
Soon, ah soon! the painted scene,
The hill's blue top, the valley's green,
'Midst clouds of . snow and whirlwinds
drear,
Shall cold and comfortless appear :
The howling blast shall strip the plain,
And bid my pensive bosom learn,
Though Nature's face shall smile again,
And on the glowing breast of spring
Creation all her gems shall fling,
Youth's April-morn shall ne'er return.
37— J
Then come, Oh! quickly come, Hygeian I
maid ! [pervade. I
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering nerve
Flash thy bright fires across my languid eye,
Tint my pale visage with thy roseate dye,
Bid my heart's current own a temperate glow,
And from its crimson source in tepid channels
flow.
O Health, celestial nymph ! without thy aid
Creation sickens in oblivion's shade :
Along the drear and solitary gloom
We steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb ;
Youth, age, wealth, poverty, alike agree-
To live is anguish, when deprived of thee.
To thee indulgent Heaven benignly gave
The touch to heal, the ecstacy to save.
The balmy incense of thy fostering breath
Wafts the wan victim from the fangs of death,
Robs the grim tyrant of .his trembling prize,
Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies.
Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest
To meet the rising sun with perfumed breast,
Which glow'd with lustrous tints at noon-tide
hour,
And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower,
With withering anguish mourn the parting
day,
Shrink to the earth, and sorrowing fade away.
ODE
TO VANITY.
Insatiate tyrant of the mind,
Fantastic, aery, empty thing,
Borne on Illusion's fluttering wing,
Fallacious as the wanton wind ;
Capricious goddess !— Beauty's foe ;
Thou— who no settled home dost know ;
The busy world, the sylvan plain,
Alike confess thy potent reign.
Queen of the motley garb — at thy command
Fashion waves her flowery wand ;
See she kindles Fancy's flame,
Around her dome thy incense flies,
The curling fumes ascend the skies,
And fill the " Trump of Fame."
When Heaven's translucent ray
Unveil'd the mighty work of God ;
When the Promethean spark of day
Awoke his Image from a torpid clod ;
When radiance pour'd on human sight,
And the illumined soul beam'd with celestial
light;
Exulting man, sole Potentate below,
First felt thy poisonous glow ;
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38 MRS. ROBINSOIPS
He gazed upon his wondrous frame ;
The self-approving conscious flame
Thrill'd in each trembling vein with subtle
art, [heart.
Then fix'd its baneful source within his godlike
Thy breath accursed brought deathless wo
On man's devoted race ;
Hurl'd th' aspiring Fiend to realms below,
Who, plunged in fell disgrace,
There, deep inthrall'd in adamantine spells,
In chains of scorpions bound, for ever, ever
dwells.
In every scene of social joy,
Amidst the rude unpolish'd train,
From the low offspring of the barren plain,
To him whose lofty bosom owns
Descent sublime from scepter'd thrones,
All, all thy laws obey.
Thy light hand plumes the warrior's brow,
Decks e'en fierce War with tinsel show,
E'en in the tented fields thy banners flow,
To thee illustrious chieftains bow ;
'Tis thy capricious influence forms
All that mad ambition warms ;
The laurel wreath, though steep'd in blood,
Placed by thy fickle hand, appears
Radiant as the sunny spheres,
When morn's proud beams roll in a golden
flood.
Ah, Vanity ! avert thine eye ;
Check thy fell exulting joy ;
With burning drops thy flush'd cheek lave,
Nor gloat upon the carnaged brave ;
For what can trophied wreaths supply,
To drown the desolating cry,
That, o'er th' empurpled fields afar,
Proclaims the dread-destructive power of war?
E'en amidst the savage race,
The untamed Indian owns thy sway ;
For thee he paints his tawny face,
And decks his shaggy hair with fragments gay :
For thee he marks his sun-burnt breast,
With beads and feathers idly drest ; —
His hardy limbs with glowing tints imbrued,
Reeking and mangled with the pointed dart,
Vainly he vaunts — nor heeds the smart,
Though pitying Nature weeps with tears of
blood.
Then turn, my muse, where milder joys
The village hero's mind employs ;
Where gentler sports delight the breast,
And soften' d Nature smiles confest.
Let me paint the rural scene,
The white- wash'd hut— the velvet green
POEMS.
May's blythe morn—exulting glee,
The chaplet pendant on each tree,
The shining hat with gaudy ribbands bound*
The lofty may-pole and the well-swept
ground, [Fame,
Where valiant combats speak the thirst of
And the loud shout proclaims the victor's name.
O Vanity, thy potent reign
Spreads its influence o'er the plain—
For thee, the blushing maids prepare
Garlands wove with nicest care ;
For thee, they dress their festive bowers
With waving wreaths of scented flowers,
Where the bold youth that wins the prize
Reads his best victory in his sweetheart's eyes.
Such is thy power— thy mandate rules
Above the laws of pedant schools ;
Reason in vain contends with thee,
Triumphant, deathless Vanity !
E'en now I feel thy vivid sparks infuse
A warmth that guides my hand, and bids me
court the muse.
ODE
TO MELANCHOLY.
Sorceress of the cave profound !
Hence, with thy pale and meagre train,
Nor dare my roseate bower profane,
Where light-heel'd Mirth despotic reigns,
Slightly bound in feathery chains,
And scattering blisses round.
Hence, to thy native chaos— where.
Nursed by thy haggard dam, Despair,
Shackled by thy numbing spell,
Misery's pallid children dwell ;
Where, brooding o'er thy fatal charms,
Frenzy rolls the vacant eye ;
Where hopeless Love, with folded aims,
Drops the tear, and heaves the sigh 5
Till cherish'd Passion's tyrant-sway
Chills the warm pulse of youth with premature
decay.
O fly thee to some church-yard's gloom,
Where, beside the mouldering tomb,
Restless spectres glide away,
Fading in the glimpse of day ;
Or, where the virgin orb of night
Silvers o'er the forest wide,
Or across the silent tide,
Flings her soft and quivering light :
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ODES.
S9
Where, beneath some aged tree,
Sounds of mournful melody,
Caught from the nightingale's enamour'd tale,
Steal on faint Echo's ear, and float upon the gale.
Dread Power ! whose touch magnetic leads
O'er enchanted spangled meads,
Where, by the glow-worm's twinkling ray,
Aery spirits lightly play ;
Where, around some haunted tower,
Boding ravens wing their flight,
Viewless in the gloom of night,
Warning oft the luckless hour ; -
Or, beside the murderer's bed,
From thy dark and morbid wing,
O'er his feverish, burning head,
Drops of conscious anguish fling ;
While freezing Horror's direful scream
Rouses his guilty soul from kind oblivion's
dream.
Oft, beneath the witching yew,
The trembling maid steals forth unseen,
With true-love wreaths, of deathless green,
Her lover's grave to strew ;
Her downcast eye no joy illumes,
Nor on her cheek the soft rose blooms;
Her mourning heart, the victim of thy power,
Shrinks from the glare of mirth, and hails the
murky hour.
/ O, say what fiend first gave thee birth,
In what fell desert wert thou born ;
Why does thy hollow voice, forlorn,
So fascinate the sons of earth;
That, once encircled in thy icy arms,
, They court thy torpid touch, and doat upon thy
\ charms?
Hated imp— I brave thy spell,
Reason shuns thy barbarous sway ;
Life with mirth should glide away,
Despondency with guilt should dwell ;
For conscious Truth's unruffled mien
Displays the dauntless eye and patient smile se-
ODE
TO DESPAIR.
Terrific Fiend ! thou monster fell !
Condemn'd in haunts profane to dwell,
Why quit thy solitary home,
O'er wide creation's paths to roam?
Pale tyrant of the timid heart,
Whose visionary spells can bind
The strongest passions of the mind,
Freezing life's current with thy baneful art.
Nature recoils when thou art near,
For round thy form all plagues are seen ;
Thine is the frantic tone, the sullen mien,
The glance of petrifying fear,
The haggard brow, the lowering eye,
The hollow cheek, the smother'd sigh ;
When thy usurping fangs assail,
The sacred bonds of Friendship fail.
M eek-bosom'd Pity sues in vain ; '
Imperious Sorrow spurns relief,
Feeds on the luxury of Grief,
Drinks the hot tear, and hugs the galling chain.
Ah ! plunge no more thy ruthless dart
In the dark centre of the guilty heart ;
The Power Supreme, with pitying eye,
Looks on the erring child of Misery ;
Mercy arrests the wing of Time,
To expiate the wretch's crime :
Insulted Heaven consign'd thy brand
To the first murderer's crimson hand.
Swift o'er the earth the monster flew,
And round th' ensanguined poisons threw,
By Conscience goaded— driven by Fear,
Till the meek cherub Hope subdued his fell ca-
reer.
Thy reign is past, when erst the brave
Imbibed contagion o'er the midnight lamp,
Close pent in loathsome cells, where poisons
damp
Hung round the confines of a living grave ;•
Where no glimmering ray illumed
The flinty walls, where ponderous chains
Bound the wan victim to the humid earth,
Where Valour, Genius, Taste, and Worth,
In pestilential caves entomb'd,
Sought thy cold arms, and smiling mock'd their
pains.
There,— each procrastinated hour,
The wo- worn sufferer gasping lay,
While by his side in proud array
Stalk'd the huge fiend, Despotic Power.
There Reason closed her radiant eye,
And fainting Hope retired to die,
Truth shrunk appall' d,
In spells of icy Apathy inthrall'd ;
Till Freedom spurn'd the ignominious chain,
, And, roused from Superstition's night,
Exulting Nature claim'd her right,
And call'd dire Vengeance from her dark domain.
Now take thy solitary flight
Amid the turbid gales of night,
Where spectres, starting from the tomb,
Glide along th' impervious gloom ;
Or, stretch'd upon the sea-beat shore,
Let the wild winds, as they roar,
* The Baatile
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40 MHS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Rock thee on thy bed of stone ;
Or, in gelid caverns pent,
Listen to the sullen moan
Of subterraneous winds ;— or glut thy sight
Where stupendous mountains, rent,
Hurl their vast fragments from their dizzy
height.
thy approach the rifted pine
Shall o'er the shatter'd rock incline,
Whose trembling brow, with wild weeds
drest,
Frowns on the tawify eagle's nest ;
There enjoy the 'witching hour,
And freeze iii Frenzy's dire conceit,
Or seek ifie screech-owl's lone retreat,
On the bleak rampart of some nodding tower.
In some forest long and drear,
Tempt the fierce banditti's rage,
War with famish'd tigers wage,
And bathe in blood, and mock the taunts of
fear.
When across the yawning deep
The demons of the Tempest sweep,
Or deafening Thunders bursting cast
Their red bolts on the shivering mast,
While fix'd below the sea-boy stands,
As threatening Death his soul dismays,
He lifts his supplicating hands,
And shrieks, and groans, and weeps, and
prays,
Till, lost amid the floating fire,
The agonizing crew expire ;
Then let thy transports rend the air,
For maddening Anguish feeds the fiend
Despair!
When o'er the couch of pale disease
The mother bends with tearful eye,
And trembles, lest her quivering sigh
Should wake the darling of her breast-
Now, by the taper's feeble rays,
She steals a last, fond, eager gaze.
Ah, hapless parent ? gaze no more,
Thy Cherub soars among the blest,
Life's crimson fount begins to freeze,
His transitory scene is o'er—
She starts—she raves— her burning brain
Consumes, unconscious of its fires ;
Dead to the heart's convulsive pain,
Bewilder'd memory retires.
See! See! she grasps her flowing hair,
From her flx'd eye the big drops roll,
Her proud affliction mocks control,
And riots in despair-
Such are thy haunts, malignant Power !
There all thy murderous poison shower^
But come not near my calm retreat,
Where Peace and holy Friendship meet;
Where Science sheds a gentle ray,
And guiltless Mirth beguiles the day,
Where Bliss congenial to the Muse
Shall round my heart her sweets diffuse,
Where, from each restless passion free,
I give my noiseless hour%'blets'd Poesy, to thee.
ODE
TO THE SNOW-DROP.*
The Snow-drop, Winter's timid child,
Awakes to life, bedew'd with tears,
And flings around its fragrance mild ;
And where no rival flowerets bloom,
Amidst the, bare and chilling gloom,
A beauteous gem appears !
All weak and wan, with head inclined,
Its parent-breast the drifted snow,
It trembles, while the ruthless wind
Bends its slim form ; the tempest lowers,
Its emerald eye drops crystal showers
On its cold bed below.
Poor flower ! on thee the sunny beam
No touch of genial warmth bestows
Except to thaw the icy stream
Whose little current purls along,
And whelms thee as it flows.
The night-breeze tears thy silky dress,
Which deck'd with silvery lustre shone;
The morn returns, not thee to bless.—
The gaudy Crocus flaunts its pride,
And triumphs where its rival— died
Unshelter'd and unknown !
No sunny beam shall gfld thy grave,
No bird of pity thee deplore :
There shall no verdant branches wave,
For spring shall all her gems unfold,
And revel 'midst her beds of gold,
When thou art seen no more !
Where'er I find thee, gentle flower,
Thou still art sweet, and dear to me !
For I have known the cheerless hour,
Have seen the sun-beams cold and pale,
Have felt the chilling, wintry gale,
And wept, and shrunk like thee !
• Prom " Walsingham," a No?el, in < rols. by the
same Author.
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ODE
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Sweet bird of Borrow !— why complain
In such soft melody of song ?
That echo, amorous of thy strain,
The lingering cadence doth prolong.
Ah! tell me, tell me, why
Thy dulcet notes ascend the sky,
Or on the filmy vapours glide
Along the misty mountain's side !
And wherefore dost thou love to dwell
In the dark wood and moss-grown cell ?
Beside the willow-margin'd stream-
Why dost thou court wan Cynthia's beam?
Sweet songstress— if thy wayward fate
Hath robb'd thee of thy bosom's mate,
Oh ! think not thy heart-piercing moan
Evaporates on the breezy air,
Or that the plaintive song of care
Steals from thy widowM breast alone.
Oft have I heard thy mournful tale,
On the high cliff, that o'er the vale
Hangs its dark brow, whose awful shade
Spreads a dark gloom along the glade :
Led by its sound, I've wander' d far,
Till crimson evening's flaming star
On Heaven's vast dome refulgent hung,
And round ethereal vapours flung ;
And oft I've sought th' Hygeian maid,
In rosy dimpling smiles array'd,
Till, forced with every hope to part,
Resistless pain subdued my heart.
Oh then, far o'er the restless deep
Forlorn my poignant pangs I bore,
Alone in foreign realms to weep,
Where Envy's voice could taunt no more.
I hoped, by mingling with the gay,
To snatch the veil of Grief away ;
I hoped, amid the joyous train,
To break affliction's ponderous chain ;
Vain was the hope— in vain I sought
The placid hour of careless thought ;
Where Fashion wing'd her light career,
And sportive pleasure danced along,
Oft have I shunn'd the blithesome throng,
To hide the involuntary tear ;
For e'en where rapturous transports glow,
From the full heart the conscious tear will
flow.
When to my downy couch removed,
Fancy recall' d my wearied mind
To scenes of friendship left behind,
Scenes still regretted, still beloved !
Ah ! then I felt the pangs of grief
Grasp my warm heart, and mock relief;
My burning lids sleep's balm defied,
And on my feverish lip imperfect murmurs died.
41
Restless and sad— I sought once more
A calm retreat on Britain's shore ;
Deceitful hope I e'en there I found
That soothing friendship's specious name
Was but a short-lived empty sound
And love a false delusive flame.
Then come, sweet bird, and with thy strain
Steal from my breast the thorn of pain ;
Blest solace of my lonely hours,
In craggy caves and silent bowers :
When happy mortals seek repose,
By night's pale lamp we'll chant our woes,
And, as her chilling tears diffuse
O'er the white thorn their silvery dews,
I'll with the lucid boughs entwine
A weeping wreath, which round my head
Shall by the waning crescent shine,
And light us to our leafy bed.—
Yet, ah ! nor leafy beds nor bowers
Fringed with soft May's enamell'd flowers,
Nor pearly leaves, nor Cynthia's beams,
Nor smiling Pleasure's shadowy dreams —
Sweet bird, not e'en thy melting strains-
Can calm the heart where tyrant sorrow reigns.
SECOND ODE
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Blest be thy song, sweet nightingale,
Lorn minstrel of the lonely vale !
Where oft I've heard thy dulcet straiu
In mournful melody complain
When in the poplar's trembling shade
At evening's purple hour I've stray'd,
While many a silken folded flower
Wept on its couch of gossamer,
And many a time in pensive mood
Upon the upland mead I've stood,
To mark grey twilight's shadows glide
Along the green hill's velvet side ;
To watch the perfumed hand of morn
Hang pearls upon the silver thorn,
Till rosy day with lustrous eye
In saffron mantle deck'd the sky,
And bound the mountain's brow with fire,
And tinged with gold the village spire,
While o'er the frosted vale below
The amber tints began to glow :
And oft I seek the daisied plain
To greet the rustic nymph and swain,
When cowslips gay their bells unfold,
And flaunt their leaves of glittering gold,
( While from the blushes of the rose
\ 'A tide of musky essence flows,
And o'er the odour-breathing flowers
The woodlands shed their diamond showers ;
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42 MRS. ROBINSON'S
When from the scented hawthorn bud
The blackbird sips the lucid flood,
While oft the twittering thrush essays
To emulate the linnet's lays ;
While the poized lark her carol sings,
And butterflies expand their wings,
And bees begin their sultry toils
And load their, limbs with luscious spoils,
I stroll along the pathless Tale,
And smile, and bless thy soothing tale.
But ah ! when hoary winter chills
The plumy race— and wraps the hills
In snowy vest, I tell my pains
Beside the brook, in icy chains,
Bound its weedy banks between,
While sad I watch night's pensive queen,
Just emblem of my weary woes ;
For ah ! where'er the virgin goes,
Each floweret greets her with a tear
To sympathetic sorrow dear 5
And when in black obtrusive clouds,
The vestal meek her pale cheek shrouds,
I mark the twinkling starry train
Exulting glitter in her wane,
And proudly gleam their borrow'd light
To gem the sombre dome of night.
Then o'er the meadows cold and bleak
The glow-worm's glimmering lamp I seek,
Or climb the craggy cliff, to gaze
On some bright planet's azure blaze,
And o'er the dizzy height inclined
I listen to the passing wind,
That loves my mournful song to seize,
And bears it to the mountain breeze.
Or where, the sparry caves among,
Dull echo site with aery tongue,
Or gliding on the zephyr's wings
From hill to hill her cadence flings,
O then my melancholy tale
Dies on the bosom of the gale,
While awful stillness, reigning round,
Blanches my cheek with chilling fear ;
Till, from the bushy dell profound,
The woodman's song salutes mine ear.
When dark November's boisterous breath
Sweeps the blue hill and desert heath,
When naked trees their white tops wave
O'er many a famish'd redbreast's grave,
When many a clay-built cot lies low
Beneath the growing hills of snow ;
Soon as the shepherd's silvery head
Peeps from his tottering straw-roof d shed,
To hail the glimmering glimpse of day—
With feeble steps he ventures forth,
Chill'd by the bleak breath of the north,
And to the forest bends his way,
To gather from the frozen ground
Each branch the night-blast scatter' <1 round —
POEMS.
If in some bush o'erspread with snow
He hears thy moaning wail of wo,
A flush of warmth his cheek o'erspreads,
With anxious timid care he treads,
And when his cautious hands infold
Thy little breast benumVd with cold,
" Come, plaintive fugitive," he cries,
While Pity dims his aged eyes,
" Come to my glowing heart, and share
My narrow cell, my humble fore ;
Tune thy sweet carol— plume thy wing,
And quaff with me the limpid spring,
And peck the crumbs my meals supply,
And round my rushy pillow fly."
O, minstrel sweet, whose jocund lay
Can make e'en poverty look gay,
Who can the humblest swain inspire
And, while he fans his scanty fire,
When o'er the plain rough winter pours
Nocturnal blasts and whelming showers,
Canst through his little mansion fling
The rapturous melodies of spring-
To thee with eager gaze I turn,
Blest solace of the aching breast !
Each gaudy glittering scene I spurn,
And sigh for solitude and rest.
ODE
TO BEAUTY.
Exulting Beauty '.—phantom of an hour,
Whose magic spells enchain the heart,
Ah ! what avails thy fascinating power,
Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art?
Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows ;
Thy cheek, where round the damask rose
A thousand nameless graces move ;
Thy mildly-speaking azure eyes,
Thy golden hair, where cunning Love
In many a mazy ringlet lies ?
Soon as thy radiant form is seen,
Thy native blush, thy timid mien,
Thy hour is past — thy charms are vain !
Ill-nature haunts thee with her sallow train,
Mean Jealousy deceives thy listening ear,
And Slander stains thy cheek with many a bit-
ter tear.
In calm retirement form'd to dwell,
Nature, thy handmaid fair and kind,
/ For thee a beauteous garland twined ;
j The vale-nursed lily's downcast bell
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' Thy modest mien display'd,
The snow-drop, April's meekest child,
With myrtle blossoms undefiled.
Thy spotless mind pourtray'd.
Dear blushing maid of cottage birth,
*Twas thine o'er dewy meads to stray
While sparkling Health, and frolic Mirth,
Led on thy laughing day.
Lured by the babbling tongue of Fame,
Too soon insidious Flattery came ;
Flush'd Vanity her footsteps led,
To charm thee from repose,
While Fashion twined about thy head
A wreath of wounding woes ;
See Dissipation smoothly glide,
Cold Apathy, and puny Pride,
Capricious Fortune, dull and blind,
O'er splendid Folly throws her veil,
While Envy's meagre tribe assail
Thy gentle form and spotless mind.
' Their spells prevail ! no more those eyes
Shoot undulating fires;
On thy wan cheek the young rose dies,
Thy lip's deep tint expires ;
Dark Melancholy chills thy mind,
Thy silent tear reveals thy wo ;
Time strews with thorns thy mazy way;
Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray,
Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find
An unrelenting foe.
'Us thus the infant forest flower,
Bespangled o'er with glittering dew,
At breezy morn's refreshing hour,
Displays its tints of varying hue,
Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade,
Where no rude winds or beating storms invade.
Transplanted from its lonely bed,
No more it scatters perfumes round,
No more it rears its modest head,
Or gayly paints the mossy ground ;
For ah ! the beauteous bud, too soon,
Scoreh'd by the burning eye of day,
Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon,
Droops its enamell'd brow, and, blushing, dies
away.
ODE
TO ELOQUENCE.
Hail! Goddess of persuasive art !
The magic of whose tuneful tongue
Lulls to soft harmony the wandering heart,
With fascinating song ;
O let me hear thy heaven-taught strain,
As through my quivering pulses steal
The mingling throbs of joy and pain,
Which only sensate minds can feel.
Ah ! let me taste the bliss supreme
Which thy warm touch unerring flings
O'er the rapt sense's finest strings,
When Genius, darting from the sky,
Glances across my wondering eye
Her animating beam.
Sweet Eloquence ! thy mild control
Awakes to Reason's dawn the idiot soul ;
When mists absorb the mental sight,
'Tis Urine to dart creative light ;
'Tis thine to chase the filmy clouds away,
And o'er the mind's deep gloom spread a reful-
gent ray.
Nor is thy wondrous art confined
Within the bounds of mental space,
For thou canst boast exterior grace,
Bright emblem of the fertile mind ;
Yes ; I have seen thee, with persuasion meek,
Bathe in the lucid tear on Beauty's cheek;
Have mark'd thee in the downcast eye,
When suffering Virtue claim'd the pitying
sigh.
Oft by thy thrilling voice subdued,
The meagre fiend Ingratitude
Her treacherous fang conceals ;
Pale Envy hides her forked sting ;
And Calumny beneath the wing
Of dark oblivion steals.
Before thy pure and lambent fire
Shall frozen Apathy expire ;
Thy influence, warm and unconfined,
Shall rapturous transports give,
And in the base and torpid mind
Shall bid the fine affections live.
When Jealousy's m al ign a n t dart
Strikes at the fondly-throbbing heart ;
When fancied woes on every side assail,
Thy honey'd accents shall prevail ;
When burning Passion withers up the brain,
And the fix'd lids the glowing drops sustain,
Touch'd by thy voice, the melting eye
Shall pour the balm of yielding Sympathy.
'Tis thine with lenient song to move
The dumb despair of hopeless Love ;
Or when the animated soul
On Fancy's wing shall soar,
And, scorning Reason's soft control,
Untrodden paths explore,
Till, by distracting conflicts toss'd,
The intellectual source is lost ;
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
E'en then, the witching music of thy tongue,
Stealing through Misery's darkest gloom,
Weaves the fine threads of Fancy's loom,
Till every slacken'd nerve, new strung,
Bids renovated Nature shine,
Amidst thy fostering beams, oh ! Eloquence di-
vine.
ODE
TO THE MOON.
Pale Goddess of the witching hour !
Blest Contemplation's placid friend !
Oft in my solitary bower
I mark thy lucid beam
From thy crystal car descend,
Whitening the spangled heath and limpid sapphire
stream.
And oft amidst the shades of night
I court thy undulating light ;
When fairies dance around the verdant ring,
Or, sportive, frisk beside the bubbling spring;
When the thoughtless shepherd's song
Echoes through the silent air,
While he pens his fleecy care,
Or plods with sauntering gait the dewy meads
along.
Chaste orb ! as through the vaulted sky
Feathery clouds transparent sail ;
When thy languid, weeping eye
Sheds its soft tears upon the painted vale ;
As sad I ponder o'er the rising floods,
Or tread with listless step th' embowering
woods,
O let thy soft, though transitory beam,
Soothe my sad mind with Fancy's aery dream.
Wrapt in reflection, let me trace,
Around the vast ethereal space,
Stars, whose twinkling fires illume
Dark-brow' d Night's obtrusive gloom ;
Where, across the concave wide,
Flaming meteors swiftly glide ;
Or, along the milky way,
Vapours shoot a silvery ray ;
And as I mark thy faint reclining head,
Sinking on ocean's glassy bed,
Let Reason tell my soul, thus all things fade ;
The seasons change, the gaudy sun,
When day's burning car hath run
Its fiery course, no more we view,
While o'er the mountain's golden head,
Streak'd with tints of crimson hue,
^^l^wilight's filmy curtains spread,
TBg o'er Nature's face, a desolating shade.
Yon musky flower, that scents the earth ;
The sod, that gave its odours birth ;
The rock, that breaks the torrent's force ;
The vale, that owns its wandering course ;
The woodlands, where the vocal throng
Trill the wild melodious song ;
Thirsty deserts, sands that glow,
Mountains, capp'd with flaky snow ;
Luxuriant groves, enamell'd fields,
All that prolific Nature yields,
Alike shall end ; the sensate heart,
With all its passions, all its fire,
Touch'd by Fate's unerring dart,
Shall feel its vital strength expire ;
Those eyes, that beam with Friendship's ray,
And glance ineffable delight,
Shall shrink from Life's translucid day,
And close their fainting orbs in Death's imper-
vious night.
Then what remains for mortal power,
But Time's dull journey to beguile ;
To deck with joy tbe winged hour,
To meet its sorrows with a patient smile ;
And when the toilsome pilgrimage shall end,
To greet the tyrant as a welcome friend.
ODE
TO MEDITATION.
Sweet child of Reason ! maid serene !
With folded arms and pensive mien ;
Who, wandering near yon thorny wild,
So oft my lengthening hours beguiled ;
Thou who, within thy peaceful cell,
Canst laugh at life's tumultuous care,
While calm Repose delights to dwell
On beds of fragrant roses there ;
Where meek-eyed Patience waits to greet
The wo- worn traveller's weary feet,
Till by her bless'd and cheering ray
The clouds of sorrow fade away ;
Where conscious Rectitude retires ;
Instructive Wisdom ; calm Desires ;
Prolific Science— labouring Art;
And Genius, with expanded heart.
Far from thy lone and pure domain
Steals pallid Guilt, whose scowling eye
Marks the rack'd soul's convulsive pain,
Though hid beneath the mask of joy ;
Maddening Ambition's dauntless ban 1 ;
Lean Avarice with iron hand ;
Hypocrisy with fawning tongue ;
S; ft Flattery with persuasive song ;
AppalTd, in gloomy shadows fly,
From Meditation's piercing rye.
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ODES.
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How oft with thee I ve ttroll'd unseen
O'er the lone -valley's velvet green ;
And brash' d away the twilight dew
That 8tain'd the cowslip's golden hue ;
Oft, as I ponder' d o'er the scene,
Would memory picture to my heart
How full of grief my days have been,
How swiftly rapturous hours depart !
Then wouldst thou, sweetly reasoning, say,
■" Time journeys through the roughest day "
The hermit, from the world retired,
By calm Religion's voice inspired,
Tells how serenely time glides on,
From crimson morn, till setting sun
How guiltless, pure, and free from strife,
He journeys through the vale of life ;
Within his breast nor sorrows mourn,
Nor cares perplex, nor passions burn
No jealous fears or boundless joys,
The tenor of his mind destroys ;
And when revolving memory shows
The thorny world's unnumber'd woes,
He blesses Heaven's benign decree,
That gave his days to peace and thee.
The gentle maid whose roseate bloom
Fades fast within a cloister's gloom,
Far by relentless Fate removed
From all her youthful fancy loved—
When her Warm heart no longer bleeds,
And cool Reflection's hour succeeds,
Led by thy downy hand, she strays
Along the green dell's tangled maze ;
Where through dank leaves the whispering
showers
Awake to life the fainting flowers ;
Absorb'd by thee, she hears no more
The distant torrent's deafening roar ;
The well-known vesper's silver tone ;
The bleak wind's desolating moan ;
No more she sees the nodding spires,
Where the lone bird' of night retires,
While Echo chants her boding song
The cloister's mouldering walls among ;
No more she weeps at Fate's decree,
But yields her pensive soul to thee.
The sage whose palsied head bends low
' Midst seatter'd locks of silvery snow,
Still by his mind's elear lustre tells
What warmth within his bosom dwells ;
How glows his heart with treasured lore,
How rich in Wisdom's boundless store :
Infading life's protracted hour,
He smiles at death's terrific power;
He lifts his radiant eyes, which gleam
With resignation's sainted beam ;
And, as the weeping star of morn
Sheds lustre on the wither'd thorn,
His tear benign calm comfort throws
O'er rugged life's corroding woes ;
His pious soul's enlighten'd rays
Dart forth, to gild his wintry days ;
He smiles serene at Heaven's decree,
And his last hour resigns to thee.
When learning, with Promethean art
Unveils to light the youthful heart ;
When on the richly-budding spray
The glorious beams of Genius play ;
When the expanded leaves proclaim
The promised fruits of ripening Fame ;
O Meditation, maid divine !
Proud Reason owns the work is thine.
Oft have I known thy magic power
Irradiate sorrow's wintry hour ;
Oft my full heart to thee hath flown,
And wept for miseries not its own ;
When shrewd Hypocrisy has wound
In dulcet tones my soul around,
While Art, concealed in specious guise,
Pour'd Passion's tear and Pity's sighs ;
When, cold Ingratitude was seen
Beneath Affection's gentlest mien ;
When, pinch'd with agonizing Pain,
My restless bosom dared complain ;
Oft have I sunk upon thy breast,
And lull'd my weary mind to rest ;
Till I have own'd the blest decree,
That gave my soul to peace and thte.
ODE
TO VALOUR.
Transcendent Valour !— godlike power/
Lord of the dauntless breast, and steadfast
mien'
Who robed in majesty sublime,
Sat in thy eagle wafted car,
And led the hardy sons of war,
With head erect, and eye serene,
Amidst the arrowy shower j
When, unsubdued, from clime to clime,
Young Ammon taught exulting Fame
O'er earth's vast space to sound the glories ?>;'
thy name.
Illustrious Valour ! from whose glance
Each recreant passion shrinks dismay' d
To whom benignant Heaven consign'd
All that can elevate the mind ;
'Tis thine, in radiant worth array 'd
To rear thy glittering helmet high,
And with intrepid front defy
Stern Fate's uplifted arm and desolating lance.
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46
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
When, from the chaos of primaeval night,
This wondrous orb first sprung to light,
And, poized amid the sphery clime
By strong attraction's power sublime,
Its whirling course began ;
With sacred spells encompassed round,
Each element observed its bound,
Earth's solid base huge promontories bore ;
CurVd ocean roar'd, clasp'd by the rocky
shore ;
And 'midst metallic fires translucent rivers ran.
All nature own'd th' Omnipotent's com-
mand!
Luxuriant blessings deck'd the vast domain ;
He bade the budding branch expand,
And from the teeming ground call'd forth the
cherish'd grain ;
Salubrious springs from flinty caverns drew ;
' Enamell'd verdure o'er the landscape threw ;
He taught the scaly host to glide,
Sportive, amidst the limpid tide ; N
His breath sustain'd the eagle's wing ;
With vocal sounds bade hills and valleys
ring ; [birth
*Then, with his Word supreme, awoke to
The human form sublime— the sovereign lord of
earth!
Valour ! thy pure and sacred flame
Diffused its radiance o'er his mind j
From thee he learnt the fiery steed to tame,
And with a flowery band the speckled pard to
bind ;
Guarded by Heaven's eternal shield,
He taught each living thing to yield j
Wondering yet undismay'd he stood
To mark the sun's fierce fires decay ;
Fearless he saw the tiger play,
While at his stedfast gaze the lion couch'd sub-
dued.
When, fading in the grasp of death,
Illustrious Wolfe on earth's cold bosom lay ;
His anxious soldiers, thronging round,
Bathed with their tears each gushing wound ;
As on his pallid lip the fleeting breath
In faint and broken accents stole away,
Loud shouts of triumph fill'd the skies,
To Heaven he raised his grateful eyes,
" 'Tis Victory's voice !" the hero cried,
" I thank thee, bounteous Heaven !" then smil-
ing died !
When erst on Calpe's rock stern Victory
stood,
Hurling swift vengeance o'er the bounding
flood,
Each winged bolt illumed a flame,
Iberia's vaunting sons to tame,
While o'er the foaming troubled deeo '
The blasts of desolation flew,
Fierce lightnings, hovering round the frowning
steep, [threw ;
'Midst the wild waves their fatal arrows
Loud roar'd the cannon's voice with ceaseless
ire, [fire!
While the vast bulwark glow'd a pyramid of
Then, in each Briton's gallant breast,
Benignant Virtue shone confess' d !
While Death spread wide his direful reign,
And shrieks of horror echoed o'er the main,
Eager they plunged their sinking foes to save
From the dread precincts of a whelming grave !
Then, Valour, was thy proudest hour !
Then didst thou, like a radiant god,
Check the stern rigours of th' avenging rod,
And with soft Mercy's hand subdue the scourge
of power. t
ODE
TO THE MEMORY
OP
MY LAMENTED FATHER,
Who died in the service of the Empress of Russia,
December 5, 1786.
Oh ! Sire revered ! adored!
Was it the solemn tongue of Death,
That, whispering to my pensive ear,
Pronounced the fatal word
Which bathed my cheek with many a tear,
And stopp'd, awhile, my gasping breath?
" He toils no more !
Far on a foreign shore
His honour'd dust a laurel'd grave receives,
While his immortal soul in realms celestial
lives!"
Oh ! my loved sire, farewell!
Though we are doom' d on earth to meet no
more,
Still Memory lives, and still I must deplore !
And long this throbbing heart shall mourn,
Though thou to these sad eyes wilt ne'er return !
Yet shall remembrance dwell
On all thy sorrows through life's stormy sea,
When Fate's resistless whirlwinds shed
Unnumber'd tempests round thy head,
The varying ills of human destiny !
Yet, with a soul sublimely brave,
Didst thou endure the dashing wave;
Still buffeting the billows rude,
By all the shafts of wo undaunted, unsubdued 1
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Through a long life of rugged care,
'Twas thine to steer a steady course !
'Twaa thine Misfortune's frowns to bear,
And stem the wayward torrent's force !
And as thy persevering mind
The toilsome path of Fame pursued,
Twas thine, amidst its flowers, to find
The wily snake— Ingratitude !
Yet vainly did th' insidious reptile strive
On thee its poisons dire to fling ;
Above its reach, thy laurel still shall thrive,
Unconscious of the treacherous sting !
'Twas thine to toil through lengthening years
Where lowering night absorbs the spheres !
Thy warmly enterprising mind
Nor fear, nor sordid hopes could bind ;
For bold ambition warm'd thy breast,
An&lured thee from inglorious rest,
O'er icy seas to bend thy way,
Where frozen Greenland rears its head,
Where dusky vapours shroud the day,
And wastes of flaky snow the stagnant ocean
ODBS. 47
Oh, gallant soul, farewell !
Though doom'd this transient orb to leave,
Thy daughter's heart, whose grief no woids
can tell,
Shall, in its throbbing centre, bid thee live ;
While from its crimson fount shall flow
The silent tear of lingering grief;
The gem sublime that scorns relief,
Nor vaunting shines with ostentatious wo '.
Though thou art vanish' d from these eyes,
Still from thy sacred dust shall rise
A wreath that mocks the polish'd thought.
The sculptured bust, the poet's praise,
While Fame shall weeping guard the spot
Where Valour's dauntless son decays !
Unseen to cherish Memory's source divine.
Oh, parent of my life ! shall still be mine !
And thou shalt, from thy blissful state,
Awhile avert thy raptured gaze,
To own, that, 'midst this wildering maze,
The flame of filial love survives the blast of
fate!
'Twas thine, amidst the smoke of war,
To view, unmoved, grim-fronted Death ;
Where Fate, enthroned in sulphur'd car,
Shrunk the pale legions with her scorching
breath !
While, all around her, bathed in blood,
Ibem's* haughty sons plunged lifeless 'midst
the flood!
Now, on the wings of Meditation borne,
Let fond Remembrance turn, and turn to
mourn:
Slowly and sad, her lengthening pinions sweep,
O'er the rough bosom of the boisterous deep,
To that disastrous, fatal coast,
Where, on the foaming billows tost,
Imperial Catharine's navies rode;
And War's inviting banners wide
Waved hostile o'er the glittering tide
That with exulting conquest glow'd !
For there, oh sorrow ! check the tear !
There, round departed Valour's bier,
The sacred drops of kindred Virtuef shone I
Proud monuments of worth ! whose base
Fame on her starry hill shall place ;
There to endure, admired, sublime !
E'en when the mouldering wing of Time
Shall scatter to the winds huge pyramids of
stone!
* The author's father was the first man who land-
ed at the rock of Gibraltar, in 1783, and had the hon-
our of receiving a congratulatory embrace from
General Elliot, afterwards Lord Heathfield.
t Captain Darby commanded, at the time of his
death, a ship of war in the Russian service, and was
buried with military honours, universally lamented.
ODE
TO NIGHT.
Dread child of Erebus ! whose power
Sheds horror o'er the darken'd world ;
While ghosts, with winding-sheets unfurl'd,
Welcome the murky hour !
While Conscience, like a coward base,
Awakes to maddening fear ;
When not a breathing thing is near
The records of the wounded mind to trace !
Of thee I sing, in sable sadness drest,
While happier mortals dream, and pain and sor-
row rest.
1 hail thee now, while, o'er each glimmering
8 tar,
Triumphant in thy viewless car,
Thou sail'st across th' eternal dome,
Scattering around thee thick wove gloom.
The whirling orb its course pursues ;
But oh ! how mournfully obscure !
Where are its lustres, and its hues,
Its mountains, vales, and rivers pure ?
Enveloped in the black obtrusive shade,
Oblivion grasps the scene, and all its beauties
fade.
Now, seated on thy ebon tower,
Lord of the solitary hour !
Thou spreadst thy raven pinions wide,
Creation's vanquish'd charms to hide !
And when the meek moon's crystal eye
Gleams on the sable forehead of the sky,
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Thou bidd'st each envious passing cloud
Her beamy crescent faintly shroud,
That o'er the lurid space
Thy million eyes may trace
The den where haggard Guilt retires,
To hold fierce converse with the demons fell,
Link'd in thy fatal spell !
And while each twinkling star expires,
The wild winds shake the distant spheres,
And Nature hides her face, bedew'd with chill-
ing tears!
Soul-penetrating gloom !
Thou strict examiner of human thought !
When the bright taper's brilliant ray,
Through the long painted hall, and marble dome,
Sheds artificial day ;
Thou com'st with all thy horrors fraught,
To beckon forth the guilty soul,
And bend each stubborn nerve to thy supreme
control !
Oh Night ! thou spectre bold !
Thou parent of heart-chilling fear !
Thou canst each hidden thought unfold ;
For Conscience will be heard when thou art
near!
And when the cheerful day
And all its raptures fade away,
The tyrant shuns his blood-stain'd throne,
Deck'd in the tinsel pageantry of show,
And, on his regal couch, alone,
Resigns his breast to silent wo:
Ah! then, he traces back the hour,
When, by ambition led,
Devoted legions bled,
To lengthen a small span of transitory power !
Then fancy paints the poorest swain,
That, on the bleak and barren plain,
In his low cottage sinks to rest,
Celestial peace the partner of his breast;
Who, led by cheerful labour to repose,
Finds his rude pillow strew'd with many a
thornless rose.
Oh! horrid Night!
Thou prying monitor confest !
Whose key unlocks the human breast,
And bears each avenue to mental sight !
When from the festive bower
The frenzied homicide retreats,
And, in his bosom's cell,
Essays each rising throb to quell ;
Thy penetrating power
His sense with many a phantom greets ;
He rushes forth in wild amaze !
While down his brow Jhe big drop strays ;
Then, from thy mist opaque,
Deep groans assail his startled ears,
His limbs convulsed with horror shake,
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
And the short feverish hour,
Such is thy dreadful power,
An age of agonizing wo appears ;
For sleep the vengeful fiends deride,
Till the blest sun darts forth to bid thy reign
subside !
How glorious is the eastern sky !
The warm tints rushing o'er the blue serene,
O'er the tall mountain morn's effulgent
eye
Diffuses wide the renovated scene !
The silvery dew-drops, scatter'd round,
Spangle the variegated ground;
Or dress the waving woods in glittering
pride, [glide.
Or down the silky leaves in bright succession
Then the sultry noon appears,
Absorbing Nature's lingering tears;
While o'er the thyme-clad heath,
Faint with its scorching breath,
The flocks and herds to covert move ;
The sun-burnt hind suspends his toil,
And, plodding o'er the thirsty soil,
Seeks the green sod and cool embowering
grove ;
The murmuring river lulls his mind to rest,
While the soft southern breeze steals lightly
o'er his breast !
«
Now, pensive hour,
Calm-bosom'd Evening, thee I hail ! '
While o'er the perfiimed bower
Thy balmy breathings gently sail ;
Meek handmaid of sublime repose,
From whose calm eye the soft tear flows !
As o'er the landscape's glowing breast
Thou fling'st thy purple vest;
While in the western spheres
Day's streamy radiance slowly fades,
Till, wrapp'd in dusky shades,
The pale horizon scarce appears ;
And as the melodies of Nature fail,
The sullen beetle, humming near,
Obtrudes upon thy pensive ear,
That listens to the mournful nightingale,
The tangled dells and sparry rocks among,
Where, to the rising moon, she pours her love-
lorn song !
Then, dark-brow'd Night, thou com'st again,
With all thy melancholy train ;
While bats expand their leathern wings,
And owls forsake their ivy'd home,
O'er the blank solitude to roam ;
And the small cricket sings,
Near the dim embers of the cottage fire,
To warm the village maid with omens sod
and dire !
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Yetartthounrttomyn^bres*
A dread, unwelcome, startling guest;
For when I quit the trifling throng,
Tome, O solitary Night!
Thou bring 'st the toothing calm delight,
Which charms my pensive heart and wakes the
Muse's song !
ODE
TO H O V E.
Fly, dark Despondency ! away !
Parent of Frenzy and Despair !
Go, seek the lurid haunts of Care,
Nor here thy haggard form display !
I hate thy ever scowling eye ;
Thy icy hand ; thy rending sigh ;
Thy alow congealing, sullen tear ;
Thy listless pace; thy wither' d breast,
That owns no distant gleam of rest.
No promised tranquil hour, thy soul's deep
night to cheer !
But come, fair Hope, heart-soothing maid !
Come, with thy beaming eye the gloom pervade.
Smiling harbinger of pleasure !
Here unfold thy promised treasure !
At thy approach the weedy bower
Blooms with many an opening flower ;
The skies with brighter azure glow ;
The streams in clearer windings flow ;
The birds new melodies essay j
Luxuriant foliage bends the spray ;
While all the glories of earth, sea, and sky,
Proclaim, celestial Hope, that thou art nigh !
Now on my couch, where o'er my mind
Dull-eyed Despondency reclined,
Fair blossoms shoot ; rich fragrance teems,
To prompt young Fancy's rapturous dreams ;
While at my feet Lethean waters glide ;
Eternal Silence, priestess of the tide !
Where Feeling, meek and trembling guest,
Bathes in the magic stream her wounded breast,
Care's deadly venom to destroy,
Till, every pang forgot, she hails approaching
Joy.
Now hanish'd from Elysian vales and groves,
Despondency with moody Madness roves !
Or sits upon the craggy mountain steep,
Whose dizzy edge hangs shadowing o'er the
deep:
The lightning's glare displays her form ;
And while the deafening whirlwinds blow,
She views, unmoved, the rising storm,
That shatters the devoted bark below !
49
The sea-bird* scream j the Mllowa rise ;
The lead-toned thunder rends the skies ;
The warring elements conspire
To taunt her breast with furious ire.
She seems their direst rage to brave,
Till rising from the yawning wave,
Despair appears, the spirit of the deep !
The whelming surge her naming pinions
sweep;
The howling winds with louder clamours roar ;
The angry billows lash the rooky shore ;
While livid lightnings, flashing death around,
Quench their blue arrows in the gulph pro-
found !
Hark! how the flinty fabric shakes !
While pale Despondency awakes I
And, rising from her hanging seat,
Darts forth Despair to meet.
The withering victim seems to glide
Along the cliff's tremendous side ;
Now, by her dark associate borne,
Awhile she seems to weep and mourn ;
Then, loek'd within her cold embrace,
Sinks 'midst the horrors of unfathomed
space.
Now, the dreary tempest o'er,
Maddening horror reigns no more ;
On the eastern summit bright,
Day unbars the gates of light
And rushing forward, robed in crimson fire,
Bids sombre night with all her train retire.
The severing clouds dissolving fly;
The soft breeze fans the glittering main ;
The lucid rill runs babbling o'er the plain,
Its crystal breast reflects the glowing sky !
Hope comes in heavenly colours drest;
Her golden pinions cool my breast ;
Her eye with sparkling lustre shines ;
Her hand a beauteous chaplet twines ;
And marking Fame's fair temple in the skies,
Bids for my grateful brow a budding laurel
rise!
ODE
TO HUMANITY.
Written during the Massacres at Parts, in Septem-
ber, 17W.
Offspring of Heaven ! from whose bland throne
Thou bend'st with salutary wing,
Bearing the olive branch divine,
To grace Britannia's lucid zone;
G
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50
Where in calm majestic pride
Her conquering navies proudly ride ;
While art and commerce smiling join,
And to. the favouring skies exulting Paeans
ring.
Oh, bend thy flight from pole to pole ;
With balmy pinions swiftly sweep
O'er the dark and foaming deep.
Where the warring billows roll ;
Where, in shadowy vestments clad,
Ghastly visions, pale and sad,
Rising from their prison-wave,
Seem their destiny to brave ;
Destiny severe and dire,
That spurn'd each tender hope away,
Each social gleam of mortal day,
And gave their dauntless souls to war's insatiate
ire!
Now their dismal chorus sounds
Ev'n to earth's remotest bounds !
•' Beware !" it says; " mankind, beware!
Sheath the sword of death, nor wage
War with Heaven's impending rage ;
Nor rouse the furious fiend Despair!
Already see, by fate unfurl'd,
His poison'd banner shades the world ;
All around him sad appears,
Stain' d with gore or drench'd in tears ;
Where'er the monster bends his eye,
Beneath the fatal glance devoted millions die."
O blest Humanity ! 'tis thine
To shed consoling balm divine
Wide o'er the groaning race beneath ;
And when fell Slaughter lifts her wreath,
Let the laurel bough appear,
Gemm'd with Pity's holy tear ;
Let it moisten every bud,
Glowing, hot with human blood !
And when no crimson tint remains,
When no foul blush its lustre stains,
Bathe with oblivious balm the dread record,
Graved on the page of fame by Gallia's vengeful
sword !
Mark, oh ! mark the tented plains
Where exulting Discord reigns ;
Flush' d with rage, her panting breast,
Her eye with ruthless lightnings stored,
She lifts her never-failing sword,
With wreathes of withering laurel drest.
By her side, in proud array,
Ambition stalks, with restless soul;
Maddening Vengeance leads the way ;
Her giant crest disdains control ;
Triumphantly she waves her iron hand,
While her red pinions sweep the desolated
land!
ROBINSON'S POBMS.
See, beneath her murderous wing,
Howling famine seems to cling !
Feeding on the putrid breeze,
Her wither'd heart begins to freeze !
With sullen eye she scowls around,
O'er the barren hostile ground ;
Where once the golden harvest waved ;
Where the clustering vineyard rose,
By many a lucid streamlet laved;
Now the purple torrent flows !
She marks the direful change with curses deep,
While, o'er the scene forlorn, distracted legions
weep!
Where the towering city stands,
Once a polish'd nation's pride,
See stern Death, with rapid stride,
Leads on his grisly bands !
The infant's shriek, the sire's despair,
Rend the sulphur-stagnant air !
Nought illumes the thickening shade,
Save the poniard's glittering blade;
All along the flinty way,
Streams of blood are seen to stray,
Foaming, blushing, as they flow,
While every dome resounds with agonizing wo !
Haste, Humanity ! prepare
Chains to quell the fiend Despair;
Round pale Vengeance swiftly twine ;
Discord bind in spells divine !
Now where Famine droops her head,
Reason's balmy banquet spread;
And where the blood-stain'd laurel dies,
Oh! let the olive bloom, the favourite of the
skies !
ODE
TO THE HARP OF LOUISA.*
If aught could soothe to peace the wounded
breast,
Or round its throbbing pulses twine ;
If aught could charm despair to rest,
Sweet harp, the wondrous power was thine !
For, oh, in many a varying strain,
Thy magic lull'd the direst pain,
While from each thought to human ills allied,
'Twas thine to steal the soul, and bid its fears
subside !
* Miss Hanway, daughter of Mrs. Hanway, Author
of " Andrew Stuart," " EUenor," &c. &c. and niece
to the immortal Philanthropist of that name.
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ODES.
51
O source of Joy, for ever flown !
While yet the tear bedews my cheek,
Let the fond Muse thy graces speak,
Thy thrilling chords, thy silver tone,
That, as the western breezes sweep,
Soft murmuring o'er the troubled deep,
Could calm Affliction's tempest rude,
Till every thought was bliss, and every pang
subdued.
Now let the Muse a wreath prepare,
A mournful wreath, alas ! to bind
Thy strings forlorn ;
The primrose pale, the lily fair.
But where shall I a blossom find
Like her I mourn ?
Where seek a rose with native colours
dress'd?
Ah! beauteous flower !
No more thy charms confess' d
Shall with their sweetness decorate my
bower!
For vain, soft emblem, is thy glowing pride,
Since on Louisa's cheek the blush of Beauty
died.
Sweet sainted shade ! for ever flown,
To worlds unknown,
Oh ! let me decorate thy bier
With many a spotless flower !
The cypress bathed with Pity's tear,
Shall consecrated incense shower !
There shall the budding laurel bloom,
The myrtle too shall grace thy tomb ;
For Genius own'd thy attributes divine
And Beauty, short-lived boast, sweet maid, was
thine!
But who shall of thy gentle manners speak !
The graced complacency that deck'd thy
mind !
The fine affections, tender, warm, yet meek,
Luxuriant taste, with modesty combined I
Oh ! she was passing good, and passing fair !
Blest with a soul so exquisitely even ;
A gem so poliBh'd, so supremely rare,
So free from folly, and so form'd for Heaven !
Too pure, too excellent for mortal eyes,
She like a vision shone, then vanish'd to the
skies!
Dear blushing rose !
Lost object of our tender woes !
Three lingering days,* thy leaves to shed, <
The fateful blast howl'd o'er thy drooping
head;
• The snbject of this poem expired after three
days' Anew, in the zenith of beauty and mental ac-
quirements.
For Time, reluctant to destroy
So rich a source of treasured joy,
Fann'd with his wing the tyrant's breath !
But, ah ! how chilling is the frost of Death !
Too weak the conflict to endure,
Time saw thee, lovely, sweet and pure,
In all thy wondrous charms array'd,
Shrink from the withering storm, and meekly
fede!
In Nature's variegated bower
How many poisonous weeds appear,
Shedding their desolating power,
On every gentle blossom near j
But, oh ! how rarely do we find,
Amidst the gay diversity of sweets,
Where every charm the fancy greets,
Such faultless attributes combined !
Sure, Nature form'd thee, matchless maid, to
show [go!
How far her power, her wondrous power would
When o'er the world black midnight steals,
^nd every eye in temporary death
Exhausted Nature kindly seals ;
When on the confines of the grave no breath
Assails cold Meditation's ear,
Friendship shall clasp thy urn, and drop a silent
tear!
There Resignation, pensive, sad,
Shall plant around the buds of spring ;
And Innocence, in snowy vestment clad,
The dews of heaven shall scatter from her
wing!
* And there shall weeping virgins throng,
And there Religion's holy song
In soft vibrations round the shrine shall die,
To emulate on earth the minstrels of the
sky!
Oft when the rosy beams of day
Shall on the eastern summit glow,
I'll listen to the lark's shrill lay;
And as the mellow warblings flow,
O harp forlorn ! I'll think of thee, and own
How poor the matin song, how weak the mimic
tone !
Oft, in slow and mournful measure,
Melting wo thy chords express'd ;
Oft to blithe ecstatic pleasure
Thrilling strains awoke the breast ;
If thy gentle mistress smiled,
How thy glittering strings would glow !
While, in transports brightly wild,
Mingling melodies would flow I
Then, swifter than the wings of thought,
The song, with heavenly pity fraught,
Would die away in magic tone,
Sweet as the ring-dove's plaintive moan ;
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53
MRS, ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Soft as the breeze at dosing day*
That sighs to quit the parting ray ;
Or, on ethereal pinions borne,
Upon the perfumed breath of morn,
Sails o'er the mountain's golden crest.
To fan Aurora's burning breast I
Yet, envy'd harp ! no praise was thine ;
'Twas by Louisa's power alone
Thy meek, melodious, melting tone
Could round the captive senses twine !
'Twas hers rebellions passions to control,
While every chord bespoke the peerless min-
strel's soul I
Yet was the feme that crown'd shy worth
The wonder of a transient, day;
Nor could it snatch from cold decay
The beauteous hand that gate it birth ;
For excellence like hers was lent, not given,
To show mortality a glimpse of heaven !
Sweet blooming flower !
Scarce seen ere lost,
Nipped by a cruel frost !
Oh! what an age of promised joy,
Relentless death, didst thou destroy
In one short hour !
But who shall dare repine?
Who blame Omnipotence divine?
Tne pure ethereal soul
Sprang from its prison-clay, impatient of control;
For this polluted orb too fine,
It plunged the gulph of fate in happier realms
to shine !
For in this sad and stormy world,
Perchance, by many a tempest hurl'd,
The gentle spirit had endured
Ills that only death had cured ;
Or lived no ray of bliss to see,
A mine of treasure in a troubled sea !
Yet Memory, watchful of her fame,
Shall guard it with a saered zeal ;
And oft in mournful numbers claim
The pang she knew so well to feel !
For sorrow ne'er assail' d her ear
Unanswered by a pitying tear >
Her bosom glow'd with virtue's conscious flame ;
And where she could not praise, she scorn 'd to
blame.
Oft by the cunning of her skilful hand
Attention hung enamour' d o'er her strain ;
For well she could the soul command,
And cheat long-cherish'd Misery of its
pain,
Till, by her soothing harmony beguiled,
Pale Melancholy raised her languid eye, and
smiled!
Lull'd by the slow and dulcet sound,
E'en Madness could forget to weep,
And, bound in galling chains, serenely sleep
On the bare ground !
From thy celestial tone would Anger fly;
While Envy, sickening with despair,
Though born the keenest pangs to bear,
Would with, her shaggy locks o'ershade her
scowling eye !
To tame the savage foosotn well she knew !
What cannot magic Melody subdue?
Yet was the maid unconscious of her sway ;
While, far from public scenes removed,'
The calm and studious hour she loved,
And through the path of life pursued her thorn-
less way;
Or when adorn'd with all the pride of praise,
She bloom'd a blushing rose, amidst a wreath of
bays!
OK Harp revered ! if round each silent string
The deathless wreath of Fame should fond-
ly twine,
'Tis not for thee th' admiring muse shall sing,
But for the tuneful maid who woke thy
sounds divine !
Then rest, in torpid silence rest;
Mute be thy chords, and mute the muse's
song;
Louisa joins a heavenly throng,
And chants the paeans of the blest !
There, far removed from human Wo,
Amidst the sainted choir her strains immortal
flow !
TO
THE MUSE OF POETRY.*
Exult, my Muse ! exult to see
Each envious, waspish, jealous thing
Around its harmless venom fling,
And dart its powerless fangs at thee !
* This address to the Muse of Poetry was called
forth by an illiberal and unjust attack of a rival poet
ess!
" But, ah ! beware how thou shalt fling
Thy hot pulse o'er the quivering string,
How thou another's name shall raise
How gild another with thy praise l n
ARMID4 TO SlMAI.no*
Oracle, Jan. 5th, 1791.
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Ne'er shall thou bend thy radiant wing
To sweep the dark revengeful string ;
Or meanly stoop to steal a ray,
E'en from Rinaldo's glorious lay,
Though his transcendent verse should twine
About thy heart each bliss divine.
O muse adored ! I woo thee now
From yon bright heaven to hear my vow ;
From thy blest wing a plume I'll steal,
And with its burning point record
Each firm indissoluble word,
And with thy lips the proud oath seal !
I swear !— O ye whose soul like mine
Beams wish poetic rays divine,
Attend my voice ;— whate'er my fate
In this precarious wildering state,
Whether the fiends, with rancorous ire,
Strike at my heart's unsullied fire,
While busy i&nvy's recreant guile
Calls from my cheek the pitying smile ;
Or jealous Slander, mean and vain,
Essays my mind's best boast to stain ;
Should all combine to check my lays,
And tear me from thy fostering gaze,
Ne'er will I quit thy burning eye,
Till my last, eager, gasping sigh
Shall, from its earthly mansion flown,
Embrace thee en thy starry throne.
Sweet soother of the pensive breast !
Come, in thy softest splendours dress 'd ;
Bring with thee Reason, chastely mild,
And classic Taste— her loveliest child ;
And radiant Fancy's offspring bright ;
Then bid them all their charms unite,
My mind's wild rapture to inspire
With thy own sacred, genuine fire.
I ask no fierce terrific strain,
That rends the breast with torturing pain ;
No frantic flight, no labour' d art,
To wring the fibres of the heart !
No frenzied guide, that maddening flies
O'er cloud-wrapp'd hills— through burning
skies;
That sails upon the midnight blast,
Or, on the howling wild wave cast,
Plucks from their dark and rocky bed
The yelling demons of the deep,
Who, soaring o'er the comet's head,
The bosom of the welkin sweep !
Ne'er shall my hand, at night's full noon,
Snatch from the tresses of the moon
A sparkling crown of silvery hue,
Besprent with studs of frozen dew,
To deck my brow with borrow'd rays.
That feebly imitate the sun's rich blaze.
Ah lead me not, dear gentle maid,
To poison'd bower or haunted glade ;
OBBS, 53
Where beckoning spectres shrieking glare
' Along the black infected air ;
While bold " fantastic thunders" leap,
Indignant, 'midst the clamorous deep,
As envious of its louder tone,
While lightnings shoot, and mountains groan
With close pent fires, that from their base
Hurl them amidst the whelming space ;
Where ocean's yawning throat resounds,
And, gorged with draughts of foamy ire,
Madly o'erleaps its crystal bounds,
And soars to quench the sun's proud fire.
While Nature's self shall start aghast,
Amid the desolating blast,
That grasps the sturdy oak's firm breast,
And, tearing off its shatter'd vest,
Presents its gnarled bosom, bare,
To the hot lightning's withering glare !
Transcendent Muse ! assert thy right ;
Chase from thy pure Parnassian height
Each bold usurper of thy lyre,
Each phantom of phosphoric fire,
That dares, with wild fantastic flight
The timid child of Genius fright ;
That dares with pilfer'd glories shine
Along the dazzling frenzied line,
Where tinsel splendours cheat the mind,
While Reason, trembling far behind,
Drops from her blushing front thy bays,
And scorns to share the wreath of praise.
But when divine Rmaldo flings
Soft rapture o'er the bounding strings ;
When the bright flame that fills his soul
Bursts through the flame of calm control,
And on enthusiastic wings
To heaven's eternal mansion springs,
Or, darting through the yielding skies,
O'er earth's disastrous valley flies ;
Forbear his glorious flight to bind ;
Yet o'er his true poetic mind
Expand thy chaste celestial ray,
Nor let fantastic fires diffuse
Deluding lustre round his muse,
To lead her glorious steps astray!
Ah ! let his matchless harp prolong
The thrilling tone, the classic song ;
Still bind his brow with deathless bays,
Still grant his verse— a nation's praise.
But if, by false persuasion led,
His varying fancy e'er should tread
The paths of vitiated taste,
Where folly spreads a " weedy waste ;"
Oh ! may he feel no more the genuine fire
That warms his tuneful soul and prompts tby
sacred lyre.
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64
TO
THE BLUE BELL.
Blue Bell ! how gayly art thou drest,
How neat and trim art thou, sweet flower ;
How silky is thy azure vest,
How fresh, to flaunt at morning's hour !
Couldst thou but think, I well might say
Thou art as proud in rich array
As lady blithesome, young and vain, .
Prank' d up with folly and disdain,
Vaunting her power,
Sweet flower !
Blue Bell ! O couldst thou but behold
Beside thee where a rival reigns,
All deck'd in robe of glossy gold,
With speckled crown of ruby stains !
Couldst thou but see this cowslip gay,
Thou wouldst with envy faint, and say,
Hence from my sight, plebeian vain,
Nor hope, on this my green domain,
For equal power,
Bold flower !
Poor rivals ! could ye but look round,
On yonder hillock you would see
The nettle, with its stings to wound,
The hemlock, fraught with destiny.
On them the sun its morning beam
Pours in as rich, as proud a stream
As on the fairest rose that rears
Its blushing brow 'midst nature's tears,
Chilling its power,
Faint flower.
Then why dispute this wide domain,
Since nature knows no partial care,
The nipping blast, the pelting rain,
Both will with equal ruin share.
Then what is vain distinction, say,
But the short blaze of summer's day?
And what is pomp or beauty's boast?
An empty shadow, seen and lost !
Such is thy power —
Vain flower !
MPS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
The smiles of fame, the pride of truth,
All that can lift the glowing mind,
The noblest energies of youth,
Wit, valour, genius, science, taste !
A form by all that's lovely graced,
A soul where virtue dwells enshrined,
A prey to thee we find !
NEGLECT.
Au ! cold Neglect ! more chilling far
Than Zembla's blast or Scythia's snow ;
Sure born beneath a luckless star
Is he who, after every pain
Has wrung his bosom's tenderest vein,
To fill his bitter cup of wo,
Is destined thee to know.
The spring of life looks fresh and gay,
The flowers of fancy bud around,
We think that every morn is May ;
While hope and rapture fill the breast,
We hold reflection's loss a jest,
Nor own that sorrow's shaft can wound,
Till cold Neglect is found.
Ah ! then, how sad the world appears,
How false, how idle are the gay !
Morn only breaks to witness tears,
And evening closes but the show -
That darkness mimics human wo,
And life's best dream a summer day
That shines and fades away.'
Some dread disease and others' wo ;
Some visionary torments see ;
Some shrink unpitied love to know ;
Some writhe beneath oppression's fangs,
And some with jealous hopeless pangs ;
But whatsoe'er my fate may be,
O, keep Neglect from me !
E'en after death let Memory's hand,
Directed by the moonlight ray,
Weave o'er my grave a cypress band,
And bind the sod with curious care,
And scatter flowerets fresh and fair,
And oft the sacred tribute pay,
To keep Neglect away !
ODE
TO MY BELOVED DAUGHTER,
On her Birth-Day, October 18, 1794.
'Tis not an April-day,
Nor rosy summer's burning hour,
Nor evening's sinking ray,
That gilds rich autumn's yellow bower,
Alone that fades away !
Life is a variegated, tedious span, [man !
A sad and toilsome road, the weary traveller,
'Tis not the base alone
That wander through a desert drear,
Where Sorrow's plaintive tone
Calls Echo from her cell to hear
The soul-subduing moan ;
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In haunts where Virtue lives retired we see
The agonizing wounds of hopeless misery !
*Tis not in titles rain,
Or yet in costly trappings rare,
Or courts where monarchs reign,
Or sceptre, crown, or regal chair,
To quell the throb of pain ;
v The balmy hour of rest alone, we find,
Springs from that sacred source, integrity of
mind!
Power cannot give us health,
Or lengthen out our breathing day !
Nor all the stores of wealth
The sting of conscience chase away !
Time seals each charm by stealth,
And, spite of all that Wisdom can devise,
Still to the vale of Death our dreary pathway
lies!
Mark how the seasons go !
Spring passes by in liveliest green,
Then Summer's trappings glow,
Then Autumn's tawny vest is seen,
Then Winter's locks of snow !
With true philosophy each change explore,
Read Nature's page divine! and mock the pe-
dant's lore.
Life's race prepared to run,
We wake to youth's exulting glee ;
Alas ! how soon 'tis done !
We fall, like blossoms from the tree,
Tet ripe, by Reason's sun;
The cherish'd fruit in Winter's gloom shall be
An earnest bright and fair— of immortality !
Sweet comfort of my days !
While yet in youth's ecstatic prime,
Illumed by Virtue's rays,
Thy hand shall snatch from passing Time
A wreath 4hat ne'er decays !
That when cold age shall shrink from worldly
cares, [hairs !
A crown of conscious peace may deck thy silver
We are but busy ants,
We toil through Summer's vivid glow
To hoard for Winter's wants ;
Our brightest prospects fraught with wo,
And thorny all our haunts !
Then let it be the child of Wisdom's plan,
To make his little hour as cheerful as he can !
The Being we adore
Bids all the face of Nature smile !
The wisest can no more
Than view it, and revere the while.
Then let us not explore
55
Things hidden In the mysteries of Fate ;
Man should rely on Heaven, nor murmur at his
state,
Thou art more dear to me
Than sight, or sense, or vital air !
For every day I see
Presents thee with a mind more fair.
Rich pearl, in life's rude sea !
Oh ! may thy mental graces still impart
The balm that soothes to rest a Mother's tremb-
ling heart!
Still may revolving years
Expand the virtues of thy mind ;
And may Affliction's tears
Thy peaceful pillow never find ;
Nor fruitless hopes — nor fears :
May no keen pangs thy halcyon bower invade,
But every thought be bliss, till thy last hour shall
fed*.
ODE
TO WINTER.
Hail ! tyrant of the gloomy season, hail !
I greet thine hoary brow and visage pale :
I greet thy grey and solemn eye,
Thy bosom deathly cold,
Thy breath, that breathes to petrify,
Thy snowy crest, which thickening clouds en-
fold.
Parent of Desolation— numbing power !
Nature first heard thee in the stormy hour ;
And on the bleak hill's shaggy side,
Beheld thee on the howling whirlwind
ride:
While, withering in the wild blast keen,
Her beauteous progeny were seen,
Woods, meadows, flowerets gay, and velvet hil-
locks green.
She heard thy voice, both loud and deep,
The loftiest mountains sweep,
Echoing their cavern'd haunts among,
With cadence fiercely strong.
She mark'd thy sable robe, wide spread
Upon the tall cliff's barren head :
Blank solitudes of dazzling snow
Display thy drear domain ;
And, in the peopled hamlets of the plain,
Intolerable despot ! shivering Wo
And pale-eyed Famine mark'd thy power,
Lord of the freezing hour !
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56
MRS. HOBJNSOirS POEMS.
Rivers, whose clamour spread around,
'Mid summer's glow, a pleasing sound ;
Moaning, or rippling slow along,
Embroider'd banks among—
Woods, that, nodding o'er the steep,
The misty summits -crown,
And, while the evening breezes sleep,
Wave to the setting sun their branches brown —
The shallow brooks, that, when soft May
Show'd her flush'd bosom, flow'd so fast,
Now mute in icy fetters stay,
And motionless endure the blast-
All, to thy fierce and desolating sway,
Yield, scowling despot of the short-lived day !
Within the cottage, low and mean,
Pale Poverty's chill'd group is seen ;
Though not far off, across the plain,
The senseless and luxurious train
Of Pomp and Folly revel, gay,
The festive hours away !
The plenteous board, the blazing fire,
The jest and vacant smile ;
The cheering cup, the warm attire,
The freezing nights beguile.
Unheard by pleasure's train, the north wind
blows, [repose.
They sink on beds of down, to sweet and long
O petrifying power f
Tney little heed the darkest hour ;
For, while with Fortune's favours blest,
With days of luxury and nights of rest,
Pride scarce remembers misery's shrinking
kind,
Who freeze beneath the cutting wind ;
Who on the snowy desert stray,
Or plough the wild and watery way ;
Who, doom'd no dawning hour of hope to see,
Linger through lengthening days, or, tyrant,
yield to theej
HORATIAN ODE.
Say, when the captive bosom feels
A magic spell around it wove,
While o'er the cheek the soft blush steals,
Say, is it love?
With pensive mien and devious pace,
To seek the dark embowering grove ;
The pale moon's quivering beams to trace ;
Say, is it love?
When, chain'd to one dear lonely spot,
The bosom feels no wish to rove,
All other scenes of bliss forgot;
Say, is it love?
To tremble, while o'er Fancy's eye
A thousand dreadful visions move;
To hope, to fear, to weep, to sigh ;
Say, is it love?
To seek occasions, false and weak,
The darling object to reprove;
To look, what language fails to speak !
Say, is it love ?
To chide for every trivial crime ;
To bid him from your rage remove ;
To guide with hope the wings of time ;
Say, is it love?
To know no cheerful morn of rest ;
No balmy hour of sleep to prove ;
To hold philosophy a jest !
Say, is it love ?
To cherish grief, nor dare complain ;
To envy sainted souls above ;
While jealous anguish rends the brain ;
Say, is it love?
Long have I, doom'd, alas ! to grieve,
Against the fell enchantment strove;
Then, Fate, ah ! let me " cease to live,
Or cease to love ! '
ODE
FOR THR ISth OF JANUARY, 17p4.
The Muse who pours the votive strain,
Weeps o'er each tributary line,
And grieves to know that conscious pain,
Perverts her glorious great design.
Alas ! in vain of joys she sings,
While Pity shackles Rapture's wings,
And meek Dejection's trickling tear
Responsive flows to sighs sincere ;
While Meditation, fraught with rending woes,
To every feeling mind a scene of misery shows.
Bleak blows the petrifying gale
Upon the peasant's rushy roof!
His breast a thousand pangs assail,
As though his heart were tempest-proof!
His shivering infants round him mourn,
And cry " Ah ! when will spring return?"
" Do all, like us, distress endure !
So cold, so hungry, and so poor?'*
Yet when their day is past stern fate bestows
The balmy hour of rest, which greatness seldom
knows.
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ODES.
No more) Reflection, sorrowing maid,
O'er Reason cast thy awful veil ;
Where Mirth, in careless garh array' d,
And smiles, and thoughtless jests prevail.
For shouldst thou trace, with pensive mien,
The fatal agonizing scene
Where legions wade through human gore,
And death shoots swift from shore to shore !
The splendid glare of revelry would fade,
. And all its phantoms sink in sorrow's whelming
shade.
57
For Fancy might, perchance, descry
The wo which Pleasure's tribe ne'er saw,
The bleeding breast, the phrenzied eye,
That chill the soul with fearful awe.
Fancy might paint the embattled plain,
The shrieking wife, the breathless swain,
The blazing cot, the houseless child,
Driven on Misfortune's rugged wild !
And Truth might whisper to the pondering
mind,
" Such is the chequered lot of half the human
kind!"
Ye threatening storms malignant, fly !
Cloud not this fair, this festive day ;
Burst forth to splendour, lowering sky,
And flash around a vivid ray.
Swiftly come, whispering zephyrs, chase
Tfie tears that bathe Reflection's &ce !
Bid mournful Memory cease to gaze
On livelier scenes of peaceful days,
When every morning breeze, that found our
isle,
Awoke her hardy sons to labour and to smile.
Now let the gaudy tribe advance,
Let only present joys be known,
And let blithe beauty's lightning-glance
Dart lustre round Britannia's throne.
Yet, if amidst the dazzling sight
A sparkling tear of liquid light,
Drawn by a sigh from pity's breast,
Should fall, to gem the regal crest,
Oh ! may it shine with Heaven's approving
blaze,
An attribute divine, to mock inferior rays !
Come, soft-eyed Hope ! in spotless vest,
Come, and our brows with olive deck !
Bathe with thy balm the human breast,
And rear new charms on Nature's wreck ;
Bid drooping Commerce thrive again ;
Spread rapture o'er the rustic plain ;
Wash with the spring from Mercy's eye
The blood that bids the laurel die !
• And spread once more around this favoured
isle
The fostering rays of Peace, and bid fair Free-
dom smile !
TO PEACE :
FROM THE " SHRINE OF BERTHA,'
A NOVEL,
BY MISS ROBINSON.
O Peace ! thou nymph of modest mien !
Where, where, dost thou delight to stray?
Dost thou o'er mountains bend thy way,
When evening spreads its shade serene ?
Or dost thou fly from scorching light,
To seek the tufted vale?
Or, 'midst the solemn noon of night,
List to the love-lorn minstrel's tale?
Or in the hermit's solitary cell,
In simple vestment clad, with holy Silence
dwell?
Fair, first-born, placid child of Jove !
An humble suppliant deign to hear ;
If, from thy starry-spangled sphere,
Thou stoop'st o'er mortal scenes to rove ;
If ever to the lonely shed
Of Agony and Grief
Thy slow and timid footsteps tread,
To bring the balm of sure relief;
Oh ! quickly come, and through each aching
vein
Thy sainted balsam pour, to lull my feverish
brain.
The vain, the busy world I scorn ;
I seek no gaudy scenes of guile,
Where Falsehood courts with murderous
smile,
And Pleasure mocks the wretch forlorn :
To unillumined caves I'll fly,
Or climb the mountain's crest ;
And, hid from every curious eye,
Steal softly to thy halcyon breast ;
Where soothing visions round my form shall
move,
And one long tranquil dream my weary senses
prove !
Already from my throbbing heart
The killing shaft of Anguish flies ;
Hope sparkles in my grateful eyes,
And Reason blunts Affliction's dart !
About my waist no myrtle weaves ;
No rose adorns my brow ;
Nor yet the poppy's numbing leaves ;
Nor yet the laurel's pompous bough ;
Then, Peace ! thy healing olive let me own,
And let me steal through life— unenvied and
unknown.
H
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ODE
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Dull maid ! to thee my willing tows I pay,
Thou whom nor fortune nor caprice can
IN IMITATION OF POPE.
How blest is he who, horn to tread
The silent paths of sweet repose,
Finds peace beneath the rural shed,
Which pomp— ne'er knows.
Who royes with independent mind,
O'er hills, and meads, and flowery plains,
That feast on Nature's lap to find
Which pride— disdains !
How blest to sing, and talk, and smile,
The busy envious world forgot,
To fear no lurking stings of guile,
In his low cot.
/
When high the matin lark is seen,
With fluttering wings and shrilly song,
He saunters o'er the dewy green,
Fearless of wrong.
And when the sultry sun flames high,
He seeks the silent shade or dell,
No fierce banditti lurking nigh,
With murderous spell.
As evening's crimson shadows fade.
And twilight spreads its mantle grey,
He plods along the upland glade,
Serenely gay !
Then on some pallet clean and low,
He sleeps, nor dreams of ills the while,
And when the eastern mountains glow,
He wakes— to smile.
He shuns the pride of wealth and birth-
No Vassal's lord— no tyrant's slave !
His hut, the haunt of modest worth,
The turf— his grave.
- TO APATHY.
Welcome, thou petrifying power !
Come, fix on me thy vacant eye,
Which never on thy frozen breast
(Insensate throne of torpid rest)
Dropp'd the soft tear of sympathy,
In pity's graceful shower.—
Whose heart ne'er throbb'd with pleasure or with
pain,
Melted with fond regret, or glow'd with proud
disdain.
change;
With thee I'll waste the undelighted day,
With thee, unmindful of all nature, range :
The sun-deck' d mountain or the murmuring
main,
The bleak hill's summit, winter's frozen
plain,
Appear alike, O Apathy ! to thee :
Then welcome, numbing power ! my idol thou
shaltbe.
^~Thy poppy wreath shall bind my brows,
L Dead'ning the sense of pain ;
And while to thee I pay my vow's,
A chilling tide shall steal through every
vein,
Pervade my heart, and every care beguile,
While my wan cheek shall bear thy ever vapid
smile.
Amidst the vast expanse of scene
Which Memory traces, still my mind
Shall rest, O Apathy ! serene,
Patient, content, resign'd !
When Fancy paints the past repose,
Which taught my weary" eyes
On Luxury's smooth couch to close,
And bade me with the cheerful morn to
rise,
No tear shall steal my soft regret to show,
No sigh shall swell my breast, for every wo
Shall find its balm— dear Apathy, in thee !
Thou best and potent cure for human mi-
sery!
Happy are those who, taught by thee,
Behold with tranquil mind
The changes of their destiny,
The sombre and the rosy hours,
And still with opiate flowers
Their icy bosoms bind !
To them the wreath of friendship torn
Presents no agonizing thorn ;
Ingratitude its fangs in vain
Upon my heart may bear,
For dead to every touch of pain,
Thine adamantine shield is there !
Sustained by thee, the breast of stone
Bounds not with sympathetic grace,
Nor stoops the weedy path to trace,
Where Misery's children groan !
Pale Sickness lifts the languid eye,
To see thee pass unpitying by,
While Poverty's gaunt sons, in~silent pride,
1 Steal to some lonely spot obscure,
And, nobly organized, deride
Those ills which patient virtue cannot
cure.
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When lore Us tyrant power would prove,
Thou, vapid dreamer, still to thee
My darksome pilgrimage shall be,
Through forest drear and unfrequented grove ;
Heedless, my footsteps still shall go
O'er flowery meads or wilds of snow ;
The burning beams of noon shall mil
On my scorch' d breast— unheeded all ;
The cold moon, gleaming mild and pale,
Shall o'er the woody mountains sail,
Or quiver on the swelling sea,
Unmark'd by me !
For I, by Apathy possess'd,
Shall taste one dream of solitary rest,
One dark unvaried dream—til] fate
ShaH from this busy wildering state
My spell-encircled soul set fi r e s
Ending thy short-lived power, congealing
Apathy.
ODE
TO THE SUN-BEAM.
Thou dazzling beam of fervid light !
Thy long and potent reign,
With sultry tyranny and arrow bright,
Now desolates the plain !
The withering herbage shrinks from thee ;
Thou burn'st with ruthless fire the tree ;
The dasied heath is yellow' d o'er—
And dewy fragrance greets the sense no
Emblem of worldly joy ! I see
Life's grandest scenes epitomized by thee !
Gaudy and pleasing ; but awhile ;—
And then how sickening they appear-
How dark! how drear!
For when the bright hours cease to smile,
How lone the midnight gloom steals by !
. And, oh ! how chilling is the beamless sky !
So worldly sorrow comes, when splendour
fades—
A blank of solitude, a barren waste of shades !
BEAUTY'S GRAVE.
Unhaftt has the traveller been
Who, where the languid flowerets wave,
The glittering tears of morn has seen
On beauty's grave !
Who, when the scorching hour of day
Its fiercest lustre bade him brave,
Has shudder 'd neai the icy clay
Of beauty's grave !
Who, when the tempest yelTd afar,
Has heard the sighing zephyrs wave,
As slowly rose the evening star,
On beauty's grave!
Lorn is the wanderer who beholds
Near the swift brook's unwearied wave,
The grass-green mantle that enfolds
Beauty's low grave
And sad, when twilight's shadows close,
To hear the wild affections rave
Around the bed of still repose,
Pale beauty's grave !
There, while the faint moon rises high,
The parent mourns, who could not save,
Yet sees his hope, his treasures lie
In beauty's grave !
Yet on that turf the sweetest flowers,
With daisies, ruby-eyed, shall wave,
And spring shall shed its softest showers,
On beauty's grave !
LINES
TO TUB
MEMORY OF A YOUNO GENTLEMAN.
' Fate snatch'd him early to the pitying sky."
Pops.
Ir worth, too early to the grave consign'd,
Can claim the pitying tear or touch the mind ;
If manly sentiments, unstain'd by art,
Could waken friendship or delight the heart;
Ill-fated youth ! to thee the Muse shall pay
The last sad tribute of a mournful lay ;
On thy lone grave shall May's soft dews be shed,
And fairest flowerets blossom o'er thy head ;
The drooping lily, and the snow-drop pale,
Mingling their fragrant leaves, shall there re-
cline,
While cherubs, hovering on th' ethereal gale,
Shall chant a requiem o'er the hallow'd shrine.
And if Reflection's piercing eye should scan
The trivial frailties of imperfect man;
If in thy generous heart those passions dwelt
Which all should own, and all that live have
felt;
Yet was thy polish'd mind so pure, so brave,
The young admired thee, and the old forgave.
And when stern Fate, with ruthless rancour,
press'd
Thy withering graces to her flinty breast
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MRS* ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Bright Justice darted from her bless'd abode,
And bore thy virtues to the throne of God ;
While cold Oblivion, stealing o'er thy mind,
Each youthful folly to the grave conslgn'd.
Oh ! if thy purer spirit deigns to know
Each thought that passes in this vale of wo,
Accept the incense of a tender tear,
By Pity wafted on a sigh sincere.
And if the weeping Muse a wreath could give
To grace thy tomb and bid thy virtues live,
Then Wealth should blush the gilded mask to
wear,
And Avarice shrink, the victim of Despair ;
While Genius, bending o'er thy sable bier,
Should mourn her darling son with many a
tear,
While in her pensive form the world should
view
The only parent that thy sorrows knew.
ODE
INSCRIBED TO THE INFANT SON OP
S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq.
Born Sept. 14, 1800, at Keswick, in Cumberland.
Spirit of light ! whose eye unfolds
The vast expanse of Nature's plan !
And from thy eastern throne beholds
The mazy paths of the lorn traveller— man !
To thee I sing ! Spirit of light, to thee
Attune the varying strain of wood- wild min-
strelsy!
O Power Creative ! — but for thee
Eternal Chaos all things would enfold ;
And black as Erebus this system* be,
In its ethereal space— benighted — roll'd.
But for thy influence, e'en this day
Would slowly, sadly, pass away ;
Nor proudly mark the mother's tear of joy,
The smile seraphic of the baby boy,
The father's eyes, in fondest transport taught
To beam with tender hope— to speak the enrap-
tured thought.
To thee 1 sing, Spirit of light ! to thee
Attune the strain of wood-wild minstrelsy.
Thou sail'st o'er Skiddaw's heights sublime,
Swift borne upon the wings of joyous time !
The sunny train, with widening sweep,
Rolls blazing down the misty-mantled steep ;
And far and wide its rosy ray
Flushes the dewy-silver'd breast of day !
Hope-fostering day! which Nature bade im-
part
Heaven's proudest rapture to the parent's heart
Day ! first ordain'd to see the baby prest
Close to its beauteous mother's throbbing
breast ;
While instinct, in its laughing eyes, foretold
The mind susceptible— the spirit bold—
The lofty soul — the virtues prompt to trace
The wrongs that haunt mankind o'er life's tem-
pestuous space.
Romantic mountains! from whose brows su-
blime
Imagination might to frenzy turn !
Or to the starry worlds in fancy climb,
Scorning this low earth's solitary bourn-
Bold cataracts ! on whose headlong tide
The midnight whirlwinds howling ride—
Calm-bosom'd lakes ! that trembling hail
The cold breath of the morning gale ;
And on your lucid mirrors wide display,
In colours rich, in dewy lustre gay,
Mountains and woodlands, as the dappled dawn
Flings its soft pearl-drops on the summer
lawn;
Or paly moonlight, rising slow,
While o'er the hills the evening zephyrs blow :
Ye all shall lend your wonders— all combine
To bless the^baby boy with harmonies divine.
O baby ! when thy unchain'd tongue
Shall, lisping, speak thy fond surprise ;
When the rich strain thy father sung,
Shall from thy imitative accents rise ;
When through thy soul rapt Fancy shall diffuse
The mightier magic of his loftier Muse ;
Thy waken'd spirit, wondering, shall behold
Thy native mountains, capp'd with streamy
gold!
Thy native lakes their cloud-topp'd hills among,
O, hills ! made sacred by thy parent's song !
Then shall thy soul, legitimate, expand,
And the proud lyre quick throb at thy com-
mand !
And Wisdom, ever watchful, o'er thee smile,
His white locks waving to the blast the while ;
And pensive Reason, pointing to the sky,
Bright as the morning star her clear broad eye,
Unfold the page of Nature's book sublime,
The lore of every age— the boast of every
clime !
Sweet baby boy ! accept a stranger's song ;
An untaught minstrel joys to sing of thee !
And, all alone, her forest haunts among,
Courts the wild tone of mazy harmony !
A stranger's song ! babe of the mountain wild,
Greets thee as Inspiration's darling child !
O ! may the fine- wrought spirit of thy sire
Awake thy soul and breathe upon thy lyre!
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ODES.
And blest, amid thy mountain haunts sublime,
Be all thy days, thy rosy infant days,
And may the never-tiring steps of Time
Press lightly on with thee o'er life's disastrous
Ye hills, coeval with the birth of Time !
Bleak summits, link'd in chains of rosy light !
O may your wonders many a year invite
Your native son the breezy path to climb ;
Where, in majestic pride of solitude,
Silent and grand, the hermit Thought shall
trace,
Far o'er the wild infinity of space,
The sombre horrors of the waving wood ;
The misty glen ; the river's winding way ;
The last deep blush of summer's lingering day ;
The winter storm, that, roaming unconfined,
Sails on the broad wings of the impetuous wind.
O ! whether on the breezy height
Where Skiddaw greets the dawn of light,
Ere the rude sons of Labour homage pay
To Summer's flaming eye, or Winter's banner
grey;
Whether Lodore its silver torrent flings—
The mingling wonders of a thousand springs !
Whether smooth Basenthwaite, at eve's still
hour,
Reflects the young moon's crescent pale ;
Or Meditation seeks her silent bower,
Amid the rocks of lonely Borrowdale.
Still may thy name survive, sweet boy! till
Time
Shall bend to Keswic's vale— thy Skiddaw's
brow sublime !
TO
THE POET COLERIDGE.
Rapt in the visionary theme !
Spirit divine ! with thee I'll wander,
Where the blue, wavy, lucid stream,
'Mid forest glooms, shall alow meander !
With thee I'll trace the circling bounds
Of thy new Paradise extended ;
And listen to die varying sounds
Of winds, and foamy torrents blended.
Now by the source which labouring heaves
The mystic fountain, bubbling, panting,
While Gossamer its net- work weaves,
Adown the blue lawn slanting !
I'll mark thy sunny dome, and view
Thy caves of ice, thy fields of dew ;
61
) Thy ever-blooming mead, whose flower
I Waves to the cold breath of the moonlight
1 hour;
, Or when the day-star, peering bright
, On the grey wing of parting night ;
While more than vegetating power
Throbs grateful to the burning hour,
As Summer's whisper'd sighs unfold
Her million, million buds of gold ;
Then will I climb the breezy bounds,
Of thy new Paradise extended,
And listen to the distant sounds
Of winds, and foamy torrents blended !
Spirit divine ! with thee I'll trace
Imagination's boundless space !
With thee, beneath thy sunny dome,
I'll listen to the minstrel's lay,
Hymning the gradual close of day;
In caves of ice enchanted roam,
Where on the glittering entrance plays
The moon's- beam with its silvery rays ;
Or, when the glassy stream,
That through the deep dell flows,
Flashes the noon's hot beam ;
The noon's hot beam, that midway
shows
Thy flaming temple, studded o'er
With all Peruvia's lustrous store !
There will I trace the circling bounds
Of thy new Paradise extended !
And listen to the awful sounds,
Of winds, and foamy torrents blended !
And now I'll pause to catch the moan
Of distant breezes, cavern-pent ;
Now, ere the twilight tints are flown,
Purpling the landscape, far and wide,
On the dark promontory's side
I'll gather wild flowers, dew besprent,
And weave a crown for thee,
Genius of Heaven-taught poesy !
While, opening to my wondering eyes,
Thou bidst a new creation rise,
I'll raptured trace the circling bounds
Of thy rich Paradise extended,
And listen to the varying sounds
Of winds, and foaming torrents blended.
And now, with lofty tones inviting,
Thy nymph, her dulcimer swift smiting,
Shall wake me in ecstatic measures !
Far, far removed from mortal pleasures !
In cadence rich, in cadence strong,
Proving the wondrous witcheries of song !
I hear her voice ! thy sunny dome,
Thy caves of ice, loud repeat,
Vibrations, maddening sweet,
Calling the visionary Wanderer home.'
She sings of thee, O favour'd child
Of minstrelsy, sublimely wild 1
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Of thee, whose soul can feel the tone
Which gives to airy dreams a magic all thy
own!
Sappho.
LINES
REV. J. WHITEHOUSE.
On receiving a copy of his Odes lately published,
from the muthor.
Ik this dread era ! when the Muse's train x
Shrink from the horrors of th' embattled plain ;
When all that Grecian elegance could boast,
'Midst the loud thunders of the scene, is lost !
As one vast flame, with force electric hurl'd,
Grasps the roused legions of th* enlightened
world;
The bard, neglected, droops upon his lyre,
And all the thrills of poesy expire!—-
Save where the melting melody of verse
Steals in slow murmurs round the soldier's
hearse, *
While o'er the rugged sod that shields his clay
Soft pity chants the consecrated lay !
For, ah! no more can Fancy's livelier art
Light the dim eye or animate the heart 3
Can all the tones that harmony e'er knew
The sigh suppress, the gushing tear subdue !
No charm she owns the bleeding breast to bind,
The breast that palpitates for human kind.
Thus did Reflection o'er each wounded sense
Pour the strong tide, of Reason's eloquence !
As, 'midst the scene of desolating wo,
She mark'd, aghast! the purple torrent's flow !
Man against man opposed, with furious rage,
To blur with kindred gore life's little stage ;
While high above the thickening legions stood
Dark-brewM Revenge! bathed in a nation's
blood.
'Twas then persuasive Friendship's* soothing
power
Bade Fancy greet thee in thy classic bower!
There, from the thorny maze of ills retired,
I found the Muse ! and all the Muse admired !
Fair wreaths of amaranth, a boundless store ;
Truth's golden page, and wisdom's treasured
lore;
Description's pencil, dipp'd in rainbow dyes ;
And Genius, first-born offspring of the skies,
* Mr. Whitehouse'* Odes were couvtyed through
the hands of a friend.
The harp-inspired ! the ever varying song ;
Correct, though wild, and elegant, though
strong !
There Albion's Muse, in Grecian beauty drest,
At once could awe and vivify the b r ea st ;
In mingling cadence tune the sacred yielding
wire,
To soothe, instruct, to soften or inspire !
first, the enthusiast's * energy she proved,
As o'er the chords her glowing fingers moved !
The witching wildness through each fibre stole,
And seized on all the faculties of soul !
Then fierce ambition* smote the wondering
string,
In strains that bid the azure concave ring;
The deafening crash awoke the nations round,
And millions trembled at the mighty sound !
Next, o'er the wondering throng impetuous
War,*
The lord of slaughter, roll'd his brazen car !
A flaming brand the red-eyed monster held,
And waved it high in air, and madly yell'd !
While Horror * bathed in agonizing dew,
Before his rattling wheels distracted flew ;
Down his gaunt breast fast stream'd the scalding
tear, [fear;
And now he groan'd aloud, now shrunk with
His humid front was crown'd with bristling
hair,
His glance was frenzy, and his voice, despair !
Then follow'd Beauty,* in whose beaming
eye
Sat sainted Truth, * coeval with the sky !
Her song dispensed ecstatic pleasure round,
The soft lyre throbbing to the dulcet sound !
Then elfin tribes in mazy groups advanced.
Flaunted their gaudy trim, and nimbly danced !
Tuned their shrill voices to the tinkling string,
Or lit with glow-worm's eyes the grassy ring ;
With wanton glee their moonlight gambols kept,
And dealt the witching spell where mortals
slept.
Such is the power of Fancy ! such the skill
That forms her varying shadows to the will !
To crown her altar, which old Time has chose
Where silver Cam in silent grandeur flows;
And many a turret, many a lofty spire,
Marks where pindaric Gray attuned his lyre !
Still shall enamour d Genius haunt the shrine,
The Muses' triumph, and their smiles— be thine.
Yet think not, bard inspired! that o'er the
wreath [breathe ;
Thy hand has form'd, no poison'd blast shall
* Subjects of Odes, by the Rev. J. Whitehouse.
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Through blossoms fair in mingling colours vie,
Bright, but not transient as the rainbew'a die !
Envy will penetrate thy halcyon bower,
And crush with hurried step each rising flower ;
Or tasteless rage, with voice infuriate, wild,
Bid Malice triumph where the graces smiled.
For oft, where high the tree of Genius springs,
The pale fiend hovers with her mildew wings ;
Shades the rich foliage from the fostering ray,
And marks each leaf for premature decay ;
Dims the warm glow that decorates the fruit,
And strikes her lightning-glances to the root ;
Strips the rent fragments of each latent bloom,
Nor leaves one branch to deck the Poet's tomb !
Such is the fate of Genius ! yet when art
So sweet as thine can elevate the heart ;
Though Envy's eye, or Hate's remorseless rage,
May strive to dim the philosophic page ;
Though War's hot breath may blast the wreath
of Fame ;
Immortal Time shall consecrate thy name.
TO
THE DUTCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.
The nightingale with mourning lay,
Amid the twilight's purpling glow,
May sweetly hymn the loss of day,
While Echo chants her melting wo j
But what can soothe the wounded breast,
And every aching sense beguile*—
Ah ! what can charm the soul to rest,
Like Devon's voice or Devon's smile ?
The modest orb, with trembling light,
Beams through the soft and freshening
shower,
And stealing o'er the realm of night,
Gives lustre to the silent hour;
But what can cheer the fainting heart,
When gloomy horror frowns severe—
Ah ! what can sympathy impart,
Like Devon's sigh or Devon's tear?
Though nature's proudest will combined
To give her form unequall'd grace ;
And though the feelings of her mind
With fine expression mark her face ;
Tet as the caafcet charms the view
But till the treasured gem is seen,
Her min4 demands the tribute due,
Which else her beauty's claim had been.
If there be magic in her tear,
And if her smile can bliss impart,
Her sigh is still to feeling dear,
And well her voice can soothe the heart ;
Then where shall wondering fancy dwell,
Nor own exclusive power the while ;
Oh! say which holds the strongest spell,
Her voice, her sigh, her tear, or smile ?
LINES
INSCRIBED TO
P. DE LOUTHERBOURG, Esq, R. A.
On seeing Ms Views in Switzerland, SfC. %e.
Where on the bosom of the foamy Rhine
In curling waves the rapid waters shine;
Where towering dins in awful grandeur rise,
And 'midst the blue expanse embrace the skies ;
The wondering eye beholds yon craggy height,
Tinged with the glow of evening's fading light,
Where the fierce cataract, swelling o'er its bound,
Bursts from its source and dares the depth pro-
found.
On every side the headlong currents flow,
Scattering their foam like silvery sands below:
From hill to hill responsive echoes sound,
Loud torrents roar, and dashing waves rebound ;
Th' opposing rock the azure stream divides,
The white froth tumbling down its sparry sides
From fall to fall the glittering channels flow,
Till, lost, they mingle in the lake below.
Tremendous spot ! amid thy views sublime,
The mental sight ethereal realms may climb,
With wonder rapt the mighty work explore,
Confess th' Eternal's power, and pensively adore.
All-varying Nature ! oft th' outstretch'd eye
Marks o'er the welkin's brow the meteor fly ;
Marks where the comet with impetuous force
O'er heaven's wide concave skims its fiery course:
While on the Alpine steep thin vapours rise,
Float on the blast— or freeze amidst the skies $
Or, half congealed, in flaky fragments glide
Along the gelid mountain's breezy side ;
Or, mingling with the waste of yielding snow,
From the vast height in various currents flow.
Now pale-eyed Itforajng, at thy soft command,
O'er the rich landscape, spreads her dewy hand;
Swift o'er the plain Hie lucid rivers fly,
Imperfect mirrors of the dappled sky :
On the fringed margin of the dimpling tide,
Each odorous bud, by Flora's pencil died,
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64 MRS.
Expands its velvet leaves of lustrous hue,
Bathed in the essence of -celestial dew ;
While from the meteor to the simplest flower,
Prolific Nature! we behold thy power!
Yet has mysterious Heaven with care consign'd
Thy noblest triumphs to the human mind ;
Man feels the proud pre-eminence impart
Intrepid firmness to his swelling heart :
Creation's lord ! where'er he bends his way,
The torch of Reason spreads its godlike ray.
As o'er Sicilian sands the traveller roves,
Feeds on its fruits and shelters in its groves,
Sudden amidst the calm retreat he hears
The pealing thunders in the distant spheres ;
He sees the curling fumes from Etna rise,
Shade the green vale and blacken all the skies :
Around his head the forked lightnings glare,
The vivid streams illume the stagnant air ;
The nodding hills hang lowering o'er the deep,
The howling winds the clustering vineyards
sweep;
The cavern'd rocks terrific tremors rend,
Low to the earth the tawny forests bend ;
While he, an atom in the direful scene,
Views tne wild chaos, wondering and serene ;
Though at his feet sulphureous rivers roll,
No touch of terror shakes his conscious soul ;
His mind, enlightened by Promethean rays,
Expanding, glows with intellectual blaze !
Such scenes long since th' immortal poet
charm'd,
His Muse enraptured and his Fancy warm'd :
From them he learnt with magic eye t' explore
The dire Arcanum of the Stygian shore !
Where the departed spirit, trembling, hurl'd
" With restless violence round -the pendent
world," * [flung,
On the swift wings of wnistling whirlwinds
Plunged in the wave or on the mountain hung.
While o'er yon cliff the lingering fires of day
In ruby shadows faintly glide away,
The glassy source that feeds the cataract's stream
Bears the last image of the solar beam ;
Wide o'er the landscape nature's tints disclose
The softest picture of sublime repose ;
The sober beauties of Eve's hour serene,
The scatter'd village, now but dimly seen ;
The neighbouring rock, whose flinty brow in-
clined,
Shields the day cottage from the northern wind :
The variegated woodlands scarce we view,
The distant mountains tinged with purple hue ;
Pale twilight flings her mantle o'er the skies,
From the still lake the misty vapours rise ;
ROBINSON'S. POEMS.
Cold showers, descending on the western breeze,
Sprinkle with lucid drops the bending trees,
Whose spreading branches, o'er the glade re-
clined, [wind.
Wave their dank leaves and murmur to the
« Shakspe*re's Measure for Measure.
Such scenes, O Loutherbourg, thy pencil fired,
Warm'd thy great mind, and every touch in-
spired:
Beneath thy hand the varying colours glow,
Vast mountains rise, and crystal rivers flow :
Thy wondrous genius owns no pedant rule,
Nature's thy guide, and Nature's works thy
school:
Pursue her steps, each rival's art defy,
For while she charms, thy name shall never die.
ELEGY
MEMORY OF GARRICK.
Dear shade of him who graced the mimic scene,
And charm'd attention with resistless power,
Whose wondrous art, whose fascinating mien,
Gave glowing rapture to the short-lived hour !
Accept the mournful verse, the lingering sigh,
The tear that faithful memory stays to shed ;
The sacred tear, that from Reflection's eye
Drops on the ashes of the sainted dead.
Loved by the grave and courted by the young,
In social comforts eminently bless'd ;
All hearts revered the precepts of thy tongue,
And Envy '8 self thy eloquence confess'd.
Who could like thee the soul's wild tumults
paint,
Or wake the torpid ear with lenient art?
Touch the nice sense with pity's dulcet plaint,
Or soothe the sorrows of the breaking heart ?
Who can forget thy penetrating eye,
The sweet bewitching smile, th* empassion'd
look!
The clear deep whisper, the persuasive sigh, i
The feeling tear that Nature's language
spoke?
Rich in each treasure bounteous Heaven could
lend,
For private worth distinguish'd and approved,
The pride of Wisdom— Virtue's darling friend-
By Mansfield honoured, and by Camden
loved*
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ODES*
The courtier's *ringe, the flatterer's abject
smile,
The subtle arts of well-dissembled' praise,
Thy soul abhorr'd ;— above«the gloss of guile,
Truth led thy steps, and Friendship crown'd
thy days.
65
Oft in thy Hampton's dark embowering shade
The poet's hand shall sweep the trembling
string;
While the proud tribute * to thy memory paid
The voice of Genius on the gale shall fling.
Yes, Sheridan, thy soft melodious verse
Still vibrates on a nation's polish'd ear ;
Fondly it hover'd o'er the sable hearse,
Hush'd the loud plaint, and triumph'd in a
tear.
In life united by congenial minds,
Dear to the Muse, to sacred friendship true ;
Around her darling's urn a wreath she binds,
A deathless wreath — immortalized by you !
Dear to a nation, grateful to thy Muse,
That nation's tears upon thy grave shall flow,
For who the gentle tribute can refuse
Which thy fine feeling gave to fancied wo?
Thou who, by many an anxious toilsome hour,
Reap'd the bright harvest of luxuriant fame,
Who snatch'd from dark oblivion's barbarous
power
The radiant glories of a Shakspeare's name !
Remembrance oft shall paint the mournful
scene
Where the slow funeral spread its lengthening
gloom,
Where the deep murmur and dejected mien
In artless sorrow linger'd round thy tomb.
And-though no laurel'd bust or labour'd line
Shall bid the passing stranger stay to weep,
fhy Shakspeare's hand shall point the hallow'd
shrine,
And Britain's genius with thy ashes sleep, f
Then rest in peace, O ever sacred shade !
Your kindred souls exulting Fame shall join ;
And the same wreath thy hand for Shakspeare
made,
Gemm'd with her tears, about thy grave shall
twine.
MONODY
• See Mr. Sheridan's Monody on tbe death of Gar-
rick.
i Mr. Garrick's remains lie in the Poet's corner, at
the foot of Shakspeare's monument, in Westminster
Abbey.
TO THE
MEMORY OF CHATTERTON.
Chill pennry repressed his noble rage,
And froze the genial current of his soul.-— Gs a y.
If Grief can deprecate the wrath of Heaven,
Or human frailty hope to be forgiven !
Ere now thy sainted spirit bends its way
To the bland regions of celestial day ;
Ere now, thy soul, immersed in purest air,
Smiles at the triumphs of supreme despair ;
Or, bathed in seas of endless bliss, disdains
The vengeful memory of mortal pains ;
Yet shall the Muse a fond memorial give,
To shield thy name, and bid thy genius live.
Too proud for pity and tco poor for praise,
No voice to cherish and no hand to raise ;
Torn, stung, and sated, with this " mortal coil,"
This weary, anxious scene of fruitless toil ;
Not all the graces that to youth belong,
Nor all the energies of sacred song j
Nor all that Fancy, all that Genius gave,
Could snatch thy wounded spirit from the grave,
Hard was thy lot, from every comfort torn j
In Poverty's cold arms condemn'd to mourn ;
To live by mental toil, e'en when the brain
Could scarce its trembling faculties sustain ;
To mark the dreary minutes slowly creep,
Each day to labour and each night to weep ;
Till the last murmur of thy frantic soul
In proud concealment from its mansion stole,
While Envy, springing from her lurid cave,
Snatch'd the young laurels from thy rugged
grave.
So the pale primrose, sweetest bud of May,
Scarce wakes to beauty ere it feels decay ;
While baleful weeds their hidden poisons pour,
Choke the green sod and wither every flower,
Immured in shades, from busy scenes re-
moved,
No sound to solace — but the verse he loved ;
No soothing numbers harmonized his ear ;
No feeling bosom gave his griefs a tear!
Obscurely born — no generous friend he found
To lead his trembling steps o'er classic ground ;
No patron fill'd his heart with flattering hope,
No tutor'd lesson gave his genius scope ;
Yet, while poetic ardour nerved each thought.
And Reason sanction'd what Ambition taught,
He soar'd beyond the narrow spells that bh;jl
The slow perceptions of the vulgar mind ;
The fire once kindled by the breath of Fame,
Her restless pinions fann'd the glittering flauic ;
I
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Wann'd by its rays, he thought each vision just ;
For conscious Virtue seldom feels distrust.
Frail are the charms delusive Fancy shows,
And short the bliss her fickle smile bestows ;
Yet the bright prospect pleased his dazzled view,
Each hope seem'd ripen'd, and each phantom
true;
FSU'd with delight, his unsuspecting mind
Weigh'd not the grovelling treacheries of man-
kind;
For while a niggard boon his wants supplied,
And Nature's claims subdued the voice of 1
Pride,
His timid talents own'd a borrow'd name,
And gain'd by Fiction what was due to Fame.
With secret labour, and with taste refined,
This son of misery form'd his infant mind !
When opening Reason's earliest scenes began,
The dawn of childhood mark'd the future man !
He scbrn'd the puerile sports of vulgar boys,
His little heart aspired to nobler joys ;
Creative Fancy wing'd his few short hours,
While soothing Hope adorn'd his path with
flowers;
Yet Fame's recording hand no trophy gave,
Save the sad tear—to decorate his grave.
Yet in this dark, mysterious scene of wo,
Conviction's flame shall shed a radiant glow ;
His infant Muse shall bind with nerves of fire
The sacrilegious hand that stabs its sire.
Methinks I hear his wandering shade complain,
While mournful Echo lingers on ihe strain ;
Through the lope aisle his restless spirit calls,
His phantom glides along the minster's * walls ;
Where many an hour his devious footsteps
trod,
Ere fate resign'd him to his pitying God.
Yet shall the Muse, to gentlest sorrow prone,
Adopt his cause, and make his griefs her own ;
Ne'er shall her Chatterton's neglected name
Fade in inglorious dreams of doubtful fame.
Shall he whose pen immortal Genius gave
Sleep urilamented in an unknown grave ?
No— the fond Muse sljall spurn the base neglect,
The verse she cherish'd she shall still protect.
And. if un pitied pangs the mind can move,
Or graceful numbers warm the heart to love ;
If the fine raptures of poetic fire
Delight to vibrate on the trembling lyre ;
If sorrow claims the kind embalming tear,
Or worth oppress'd excites a pang sincere-
Some kindred soul shall pour the song sublime,
And with the cypress bough the laurel twine,
♦ Bristol Cathedral.
Whose weeping leaves the wintry blast shall
wave
In mournful murmurs o'er thy unbless'd grave.
And though no lofty vase or sculptured bust
Bends o'er the sod that hides thy sacred dust ;
Though no long line of ancestry betrays
The pride of relatives, or pomp of praise ;
Though o'er thy name a blushing nation rears
Oblivion's wing— to hide Reflection's tears !
Still shall thy verse in dazzling lustre live,
And claim a brighter wreath than wealth can
give.
ELEGY
TO THK
MEMORY OF WERTER.
Written in Germany, in the year 1786.
With female fairies will thy tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.
Shakspearb.
When from day's closing eye the lucid tears
Fall lightly on the bending lily's head !
When o'er the blushing sky night's curtain's
spread,
And the tall mountain's summit scarce appeal's ;
When languid evening, sinking to repose,
Her filmy mantle o'er the landscape throws;
Of thee I'll sing; and as the mournful song
Glides in slow numbers the dark woods among,
My wandering steps shall seek the lonely shade
Where all thy virtues, all thy griefs are laid !
Yes, hopeless sufferer, friendless and forlorn,
Sweet victim of love's power ! the silent tear
Shall oft at twilight's close and glimmering
morn
Gem the pale primrose that adorns thy bier ;
And as the balmy dew ascends to heaven,
Thy crime shall steal away, thy frailty be for-
given.
Oft by the moon's wan beam the love-lorn
maid,
Led by soft Sympathy, shall stroll along ;
Oft shall she listen in the lime-tree's * shade,
Her cold blood freezing at the night-owl's
song;
* " At the' corner of the churchyard are two lime
trees, 'tis there I wish to rest."
Sorrows or Wester.
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ODES.
67
Or, when the hears the death-bell's solemn
sound,
Her light steps echoing o'er the hollow
ground,
Oft shall the trickling tear adorn her cheek,
Thy power, O Sensibility ! in magic charms to
speak !
For the poor pilgrim, doom'd afar to roam
From the dear comforts of his native home,
A glittering star puts forth a silvery ray,
Soothes his sad heart, and marks his tedious
way;
The short-lived radiance cheers the gloom of
night,
And decks Heaven's murky dome with transi-
tory light.
So from the mournful Charlotte's dark-orb'd
lids
The sainted tear of pitying Virtue flows ;
And the last boon the " churlish priest" forbids,
On thy lone grave the sacred drop bestows ;
There shall the sparkling dews of evening
shine, [shrine.
And Heaven's own incense consecrate the
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THE SICILIAN LOVER:
A DRAMATIC POEM,
IN FIVE ACTS.
DRAMATIS PERSONS.
Count Alferenzi, a noble Sicilian,
Marquis Valmont.
Leonardo, Brother to Valmont,
The Prince Montalva, an illustrious Milanese,
Duke Albert, his Son.
Ricardo, Captain of Banditti,
Francisco, an old Steward.
Banditti.
Belmonti, Lorenzi, Bellarmo, Combatants,
HoNORrA, Daughter to the Marquis Valmont,
Constantia, Abbess of a Convent*
Agnes, the Friend and Attendant of Honoria,
Nuns.
Scene— Lombardy. Time— Sixteenth Century.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—A Pavilion at Valmont,
Enter the Marquis Valmont and Prince Mon-
Val. It shall he so ! Think not, my honour'd
liege,
That after a long life of busy toil «
My reason can be sway'd by a weak girl ;
From the first dawnof helpless infancy,
I've taught her mild obedience to my will,
And count upon her duty more than love.
Mont. I know her fix'd aversion to my son.
Vol. So weak a thought will not disturb my
hopes. [yawn,
Firm to my purpose, though the heavens should
And hurl their red bolts on my aged head,
I would not waver! For your son has worth
That makes his high descent his second claim !
This day, in single combat, he shall prove
The bravest youth that Lombardy e'er saw.
Mont. The sacred friendship that has link'd
our minds.
From the warm sunny hour of lusty youth
To the chill winter of declining age, I
First turn'd my fancy towards the fair Honoria ! i
Yet, rather than by sorrow's icy touch
To bend so sweet a blossom to the grave,
I would renounce my hopes, and her, for ever*
Enter Duke Albert.
Alb. f To Val.] I greet you, noble Sir; and
in your looks
Behold the herald of my future joy.
Mont. Alas! my son, fate frowns upon thy
hopes;
The fair Honoria, rich Italia's star—
Alb, Say, what of her? Is there from nature's
hand
So rare a model of transcendent worth?
The brilliant Hesperus that leads the day
Is not so cheering to the pilgrim's sight
As she to mine!
Mont. Now, Albert, hear me speak :
When last I saw her, on the tender theme,
I mark'd on her pale cheek a trickling drop
The silent herald of approaching wo !
Alb. O ! 'tis the pure and fascinating gem
That nature gives to maiden modesty,
To make her work more lovely ! Does not the
flower
Most ' ourt the sense when deck'd with morn-
ing't tears?
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THE SICILIAN
Mont, And wouldst thou blast the sweet, the
drooping bud ?
Come, like a nipping, an untimely frost,
And wither all its beauties to the dust ?
My son, I will not think so basely of thee ;
A noble nature cannot taste of joy
That leaves another bankrupt and forlorn.
JJh. I know that love can take all form's to
please;
And think not that 1 nurse too vain a fancy,-'
If £ dare hope Honoria will be mine !
A blush of meek complacency o'erspread
The snow of her pure bosom, when I told
My tale of tender import. Thus we mark
The lily^ blended in a garland sweet,
Flush'd with the soft reflection of the rose.
Val. And do we fear to feast our raptured
sense,
Lest we may find conceaTd a wounding thorn?
But see, she comes ! The insolent disdain
That sits imperious on her haughty brow
Be it thy task to combat and subdue.
I16VER.
69
Enter Honoria.
This day, Honoria, must decide thy fate ;
Thou art Duke Albert's bride, or not my daugh-
ter.
Hon. Indeed ! . I think this mandate somewhat
cruel.
Relentless power may drag me to the altar ;
But the free soul shrinks from the tyrant's
grasp
And lords it o'er oppression.
Val. Silence, rash girl !
Again I urge, and with a father's right,
A proud alliance with the noble Albert.
Hon. Perish his name ! for it is hateful to me.
Oh ! I had rather be the poorest wretch
That on the barren mountain stands forlorn,
An exile from his kindred and his home,
Than barter honesty for empty show !
Those who for paltry gold would part with
peace
At best can prove themselves but thrifty fools.
Val. [Grasping Honoria' s hand.] Take heed,
ungrateful girl, and mark me well ;
The soul of Valmont cannot brook denial.
Hon. ' -— - — By yon azure dome
That flings its wondrous concave o'er the world,
I will encounter poverty or death
Rather than sell my freedom ! This proud heart
Would burst with indignation, could my tongue
Pronounce a vow degrading to its honour !
Does the vain suitor arrogantly hope
To buy me like a slave ?
Val. Think on the splendours that await thy
will.
Hon. Can the gay wreaths that bind a victim's
breast -
Conceal the agony that throbs within ?
Give to the child of Folly toys for fools ;
My soul disdains them ! I am Valmont' 8 daugh-
ter;
Nor will I e'er disgrace my noble name
By being less than what that title makes me !
Val. I would augment the lustre of thy days,
Place thee amidst such dazzling rays of glory,
That every eye should wonder to behold thee !
Hon. So the fierce flame of a meridian sun
Gilds the poor insect which it dooms to death.
Val. Perverse destroyer of a father's hopes !
And dar'st thou disobey, when I command ?
Hon. I dare not sell my soul !
Val. Go, self-will'dfoolJ
Thy disobedience covers me with shame.
Oh ! had thy mother lived, her gentle heart
Had throbb'd with anguish at thy wayward
scorn ;
'Tis for thy honour I this union urge,
What else can prompt me?
Hon. Ambition !— not that emulative zeal
Which wings the towering souls of godlike men ;
But bold, oppressive, self-created power,
That, trampling o'er the barrier of the laws,
And scattering wide the tender shoots of pity,
Strikes at the root of reason, and confines
Nature itself in bondage. Oh ! tis vile .
But, thank the Gods! no spells can curb the
mind, • [virtue.
While splendour's proudest claim ts less than
Mont. Honoria, spare thy anguish and thy
"* scorn; •
And know, that ere the glories of my name
Should dimly gleam beneath a tear of thine
I would behold them perish : cursed be those
Who, to advance their own ambitious hopes,
Would trample on the rights of truth and na-
ture ! [ Trumpets without.
My son, that summons chides thy tardy lance !
I will attend thee, boy. Valmont, farewell.
[Exeunt Montalva and Albert.
Hon. Who is the cautious hero that accepts
The vaunting challenge of the haughty Albert?
Val. I dare not tell— for 'tis the stranger's
wish [name.
That none should seek to know his rank or
From Sicily he comes, and nobly born ;
Right well he wields the lance, and is most apt
In feats of chivalry and bold exploit.
Hon. From Sicily! my soul is chill'd with
fear ! % [Aside.
Sir, I attend your will, and proud shall be
To witness Albert's valour— for believe,
Although I cannot love, I can be just;
Nor will the hero's youthful laurels fade
Because they twine not with the myrtle bough.
[Exeunt.
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70 mrs, hobimtson's poems.
SCENE II. Alb. [Approaching Alferenzi.] Now, gallant
stranger, let me ask, nor think
I mean uncourteously to mock your fancy,
Why thus conceal'd you enter in the lists?
What are your rights armorial !
[Alferenzi points to hi* Standard.
Alb. 'Ti8 not enough
That innate lustre beams about your soul !
What are your claims to mingle in the contest ?
Alf. Those claims that place the good above
| the proud ! [veins
On the opposite side of the stage stand three knights ' The stream that rushes through these ardent
m armour, each wearing a scarf and helmet of Flows from a source that never knew pollution !
[Opens, and discovers a spacious court in the palace
of the prince Montalva, splendidly decorated
for a tournament. Various spectators seated on
rising benches; on one side a canopy, beneath
which are seated, Honoria, ( attended by Ag-
nes,/ the PaiNCE Montalva (with Albert
standing near him) and the Marquis Val-
mont.
the same colour as the standard borne by his page,
who waits near him : Alferenzi stands at some
distance, nearer the wing than the other knights,
with his page also.
Standards.
1st. Yellow, with a burning mountain.
2nd. Green, with a wreath of flowers and fruits.
3rd. Composed of silver waves, plain.
Alferenzi's Standard. .
White, with the motto, Virtue is Nobility. His
scarf white with gold fringe. As the curtain
rises to soft music, children ; trew flowers and
laurels. Then follow warlike \rophies to martial
music. When the stage is ax ranged, Albert
descends from the steps of the throne, and ap-
proachgs the armed knights.]
Alb. [To the first.] If that my. senses do not
play me false,
Or my eyes dazzle with your noble bearings,
Methinks I read, beneath these quaint devices,
Illustrious names ! This flaming standard,
Emblem of Etna's brow, that scorches heaven,
This crest of gold, that like a meteor burns,
Mocking the noon's fierce fires, do give thee out
Messina's prince, illustrious Belmonti !
[The Prince bows acknowledgment.
Alb. [To the second.] This verdant ensign,
this enamell'd wreath [grow,
(Tinted with rainbow dyes) which seems to
And, while its perfume scents the unseen air,
Blushes with modest grace, I well devise
Sprang from the 'witching garden of the world,
Luxurious Italy ! and therefore greet
Verona's noble duke, the brave Lorenzi !
[The Duke bows acknowledgement.
Alb. [To the third.] This silvery banner, that
doth like the waves
Play in fantastic gambols with the air,
Dancing light-blossom'd in the sunny beam,
Bespeaks the Adriatic ! Beauteous sea*.
That doth encompass Venice with a zone
Bright as the morning sun ! Thou dost declare
The offspring of Bellarmo, Duke of Venice.
f The Duke bows acknowledgment.
Though sprung, brave Albert, from a Bire whos
Has made the enemies of virtue tremble, [arm
I scorn to shield me with another's name,
And only boast the honours I achieve.
Alb. Most nobly urged ! What is your pass-
port here?
Alf. Nor gold, nor gems, nor purchased adu-
lation,
Nor vapourish vaunting, nor the breath of fools,
Nor flattery's airy fame th?.t bubbles down
The broad stream of the world, and bursts at
In blank oblivion ! [last
Alb. High-sounding words
Beguile with magic power the sense they seize,
And cheat it into faith. But ere your name
Shines on the list of valour, of your worth
'Tis fit you give some sample.
Alf. Take my scorn! [Throwing Ms gauntlet.
Thus do I hurl my gauntlet at your feet
And mock your scrutiny ; the hand it owns
Has neither palm'd with fools, nor let the base
Its blood contaminate ! what would you more?
Alb. If that thy soul be lofty as thy speech,
Thou art indeed right noble! I shall expect
That thou wilt give me proof without delay.
Alf. I do not fear; my lance will do that for
me.
[The onset begins ,• Alferenzi stands more for-
ward than the rest on the stage. Albert van-
quishes Belmonti.
Alf. [Aside.] So falls the vaunting self-ena-
mour'd fool !
The flame that soars too high evaporates,
And wastes in empty nothing !
[Albert disarms Lorenzi.
Alf. [Aside.] Honours full blown, like sum-
mer flowers, decay !
I thought thy emblem was too fair to last !
[Albert vanquishes Bellarmo.
Alf. [Aside.] So the swift storm scowls o'er
the sunny spheres ;
Brave offspring of the proud and silvery main,
Thou see'st that fame is fickle as the waves !
\ Albert advances and gazes at Alferenzi.
Alb. Now, haughty stranger, I will prove thy
lance;
And either dim it with dishonour's stain,
Or sink beneath thy scorn !
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THE SICIUAN IiOVER. j\
[They Jtght; after a fierce onset, Alferenzi But the sad hour or manner of her death
disarms Albert, and instantly kneehng, pre- { I never yet could learn ; my father's frowns,
sents his scarf to Honoria, while the curtain Whene'er I press'd inquiry of her fate,
falls to martial music.
SCENE III.— A Pavilion.
Enter Honoria and Agnes.
-Hon. It is my Alferenzi, gentle Agnes \
fle is the conqueror, and he well deserves
The proud affections of my captive heart !
Oh ! didst thou mark him, when his glittering
lance,
Like the blue lightning arm'd with threatening
death,
Rush'd on the bosom of his vanquish'd foe ?
Agnes. Each eye with admiratiou follow' d
him
Through all the varying conflicts of the scene !
What is his parentage? his name is noble !
Hon. His father is a man of loftiest birth,
A brave Sicilian ! This, his only son,
Was train'd to arms, and all Calabria's shores
Have rung with plaudits at his bold exploits !
Illustrious in himself, all outward show
Borrows those graces which it cannot lend,
For he derives no dignity from power,
By fortune less distinguish'd than by feme !
Some few months since in Tuscany we met,
And there profess'd such vows of tender faith,
As neither time nor absence e'er can change.
Hither he came disguised, in hopes to win
My father's love by deeds of chivalry ;
He has unlock' d the treasure of his heart
To my relentless parent, whose stern mind
Ii still devoted to Montalva's heir .
Agnes. Alas! I know not how to give you
counsel.
Hon. I did not think that Nature's finest art
Could fashion Reason to sustain such wo !
Heaven knows there's nothing so forlorn as I !
The sea-beat mariner, who on the shrouds
Hangs at the mercy of the warring winds,
Hock'd by the howling spirits of the deep,
May count him in a cradle of repose,
And think the roaring blast a zephyr's breath,
Compared with passion's wild and maddening
storm!
Amidst the mingling labyrinths of thought,
Bewilder' d Patience turns, and turns again,
Hu) hopeless and o'erwhelm'd, she faints and
dies!
Agnes. From childhood uncontroll'd, your
soften' d mind
But ill can combat life's perplexing thorns.
Sole mistress of the castle's rich domains—
Hon. Ay! There again, oh ! most disastrous
state !
A mother's care in infancy I lost,
Still awed me into silence. Oh ! if she lived,
Though poor, deserted, friendless, and oppress'd,
I would, o'er burning plains, or wastes of snow,
A barefoot wanderer, seek her out, and bless
her!
Agnes. Strange rumours have been buzz'd
abroad, and some
Have dared accuse—
Enter Albert.
Alb. Honoria! is my destiny decreed ?
Wilt thou not bend thy footsteps to that altar
Where meek-eyed pity bathes the wounds of
love?
Hon. Never ! yon host of saints that know
my thoughts,
Know they are fix'd, and towering o'er my fate,
Like the vast rocks that bound the stormy main!
Let the fierce tempest of a father's rage
Dash my soul's purpose, as the foaming waves
Waste their vain fury on the flinty shore !
I can with patience bear all human ills ;
All that gaunt poverty can heap upon me ;
The cold disdain of insolence and pride,
Peace- wounding calumny, or death itself !
Rather than break my vows to Alferenzi.
Alb. Perdition blast his hopes! the daring
villain!
But he shall perish !
Hon. What — because he loves !
Oh ! do not scatter my wild thoughts to frenzy !
'Tis not the province of a noble nature
To plunge a poniard in the vanquish'd heart !
Stain not thy glowing laurels, won by valour,
With the pale lustre of a woman's tears.
Albert, embattled legions have beheld
Thy dauntless crest bound with immortal
wreaths !
Then know, the sword that's steep'd in gallant
blood
Should at the fount of pity cleanse its stains,
Ere reason aches to see it ! Spare thy foe,
Nor let the poison fell of private hate
Disgrace thy kindred or thy country's fame !
Alb. I will be calm, if thou wilt bid me hope.
Hon. There's not a wretch that breathes but
dares to hope.
The wither'd tenant of a dungeon's gloom,
Who, shut unpitied from the face of heaven
Almost forgets the radiance of the sun,
Still in his prison sees effulgent hope,
That dissipates the horrors of still night,
And bids him smile upon his galling chain !
That power instinctive braves the tyrant's nod ;
Secure within itself, the conscious soul
Still feeds on hope, and triumphs to the last !
[Exeunt.
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72
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
SCENE IV. — Evening. Before Valmont's
Castle.
i
Enter Alferenzi.
ALf. This is the hour, when on yon lofty ter-
race
Honoria comes to taste the evening air,
And with the dulcet tinkling of her lute
Bids the lorn nightingale forget his tale,
And pause, in wonder rapt ! The crimson west
Gilds the grey battlements with blushing gold,
And viewless myriads o'er the fainting flowers
Close their long sultry day with humming song.
As through the valley pensively I wander'd,
At every cottage door the weary hind
Sat 'midst his infant race, with ditty old,
Cheating the traveller Time; while twilight's
hand
O'er the still landscape drew a dusky veil :
Ere now, the freckled carle forgets the world,
And in his unbarr'd chamber sweetly sleeps,
Lull'd by the music of the mountain breeze.
Enter Valmont, from the Castle.
VaL I thought to find the victor— Alferenzi !
Alf. Then thou art not deceived, for I am he—
Vol. It ill becomes a valiant son of honour
To lurk at this still hour, and seek occasion
To act a scene of darkness. Turn thy thoughts
To the broad field of conquest and renown ;
Nor waste in amorous folly manhood's prime,
While glory and ambition claim your sword.
Alf. I do not need your counsel, for I know
A soldier's valour is his country's fame.
Yet Heaven forbid ambition's furious tide
Should whelm the milder virtues of the soul :
The proudest triumphs that await the brave
Look not so beauteous in the sight of Heaven
As mercy's humblest tear.
Vol. A weak evasion !
Again I tell thee, that Honoria's heart
Is pledged to brave Montalva's only heir.
Alf Her hand, thpu mean'st ; — but may the
God of battle
Amidst whole legions of the foe forsake me,
May foul dishonour blight my fairest hopes,
If ever I renounce thy peerless child !
Cursed be the sordid wretch whose grovelling
soul
Would bind in golden chains a trembling slave ;
Or, like a dastard, traffic with the base,
To sell that freedom Heaven design'd for all !
Vol. Thy rage, rash youth, can only move my
pity;
Nor will I dim the lustre of my sword
To curb or to chastise — a daring stripling.
Alf. [Drawing his sword.'] Defend thyself !—
yet, soft, a moment's pause—
Thou art the father of my soul's best darling
The source of all the light that gilds my days !
An£ therefore— I forgive thee.
Vol. Vauntiug slave !
What then, at last thou prov'st thyself a brag-
gart !
An empty, bold, an arrogant presumer !
Boy, the young blood forsakes thy quivering
Up-
Is it the touch of fear or secret malice?
[Alferenzi raises his sword, then lowers it.
Guilt ! conscious guilt unnerves thy trembling
arm,
While her pale ensign blanches o'er thy cheek ;
Nay, frown again, while I with smiles repay
The foe I scorn to combat.
Alf. [Sheathing his sword.] Have a care !
I do conjure thee, venerable man,
Urge not my hand to do a deed of horror !
I would not be thy murderer—
Vol. Nobly said!
Then swear by faith, by honour, and your
eword,
Never again to see her. Dost thou pause ?
Alf. Oh! bid me rather curse yon glorious
orb,
That rolls his burning chariot through the sky ;
Tell me, with base and sacrilegious hands
To murder smiling infants, or profane
Religion's still and consecrated shrine ;
Bid me rush forth a damned parricide,
And drink the life-stream of a parent's heart !
There is no deed of horror so abhorr'd
As violation of my faith to her.
Val. She will but mock you ; for to-morrow's
dawn
Will see her Albert's bride ; and till that hour
She keeps her chamber— such are my commands ;
And she respects a father's right too much
To think of Alferenzi !
Alf. 'Tis false as hell.
She will not so degrade the soul she owns,
Nor will I brook a rival : Tell him so' ;
Tell the vain boaster that a father's pride
Shall by a lover's vengeance be chastised.
[The Castle bell strikes.
Val. The bell now calls me home to evening
prayer.
Mark me, rash boy— if ever you approach
These castle walls again, without my bidding,
That hour shall be your last ! Think, and be
wise. [Exit.
Alf. To-morrow ! if thou opest thy golden eye
To see Honoria wedded to duke Albert,
Thy parting glance shall shine upon my grave !
Now will i to my solitary home,
To taste a lover's only food, sharp sorrow ! •
To paint on Fancy's tablet my soul's joy,
And dream of bliss— though 1 should wake to
madness. [Exit.
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ACT II.
SCENE I.—A Gothic Hall, with a Gallery and
Staircase.
Enter Honoria and Agnes.
Hon. A prisoner, said'st thou ?— in my father's
castle !—
Here ! where from infancy my growing reason
Has taught me to look forward with delight!
Is this the noontide of so blithe a promise ?
(.thy Agnes ! happy is the mountain peasant
That wakes exulting with the morning beam,
And, still a stranger to the cares of greatness,
Sinks to soft slumbers with the setting sun !
The seasons are to him but pleasing changes
Of labour and repose ; his wife, his infants,
The smiling subjects bound by Nature's laws
To decorate his little world of love !
Agnes. Yet 'tis not always thus; for oft we
see
That Virtue, to the ragged wild retired,
Still finds the thorn affliction in its way.
Hon. But the rough child of nature knows no
guile;
No honied poison meets his healthful lips,
Steep'd in the gilded chalice of deceit :
By poverty, from envy far removed,
No fawning sycophant assails his door,
Where holy innocence presides, secure !
SICILIAN LOVEB. 73
I can persumde to pity ; if you'll venture,
The western portal shall be open to you,
And in the forest, by the midnight moon.
You may confer in safety, and unseen.
Hon. O ! blessings on thee !— soft, this ray of
hope
Dazzles my aching senses, and I start
As from a dream of horror, where the brain,
Stampt with the semblance of some phantom
dire,
Reflects it, waking, to the fearful gaze !
Now, gentle Agnes ! seek my Alferenzi !
Tell him, the gloom that hides a maiden's blush
Presents no terror to the spotless soul !
Guilt fears the 'witching hour of spectred night,
When on the murderer's front the starting drop
Sits like the dew upon the poisonous toad !
But virtue, guided by its own pure ray,
Treads the rude path, undaunted and secure.
Now to thy task, and may the powers of pity
Guard thee from every ill ! I will away,
And in my prison chamber wait thy signal.
[Exeunt severally. Valmont descends from
the gallery.
Vol. Go, disobedient fiend !
Long shalt thou wait before thy minion comes :
The midnight moon, reflecting what she sees,
Shall veil her placid brow with tints of blood !
No sound shall greet thine ear with signal kind ;
But the lone owl, with horror-boding shriek,
Shall pierce thy love-sick, palpitating heart.
Agnes. Give not your thoughts to melancholy,' How like her mother look'd the fro ward girl !
musing;
By pondering o'er past wo we oft neglect
The means of future joy.
Hon. Now, hear me, Agnes ;
This night I promised in the forest's gloom
To meet my Alferenzi ; there to pour
All my vast store of sorrows in his breast,
And then to seek oblivion .
Agnes* Yet, Forbear I
Be not so rash; parental rage is transient,
And nature bends the heart to suffering virtue !
Hon. Oh ! could transcendent virtue's charm
subdue
The haughty spirit of my father's soul,
He had not with remorseless rage deprived
An only child of a fond mothetf 's care.
But she's in Heaven;
Agnes. Yet, see thy Alferenzi —
[ Valmont appears in the gallery.
Hon. Ah ! do not mock my anguish ; gods !
to see him,
O'er the bleak desert or the craggy mountain,
Bow'd by the yelling blast and beating tempest,
No light save that the livid flash afforded,
Still would I wander, pleased and unrepining !
Agnes. Attend— without the prospect of such
danger,
You may hold converse freely ; the stern guard I How lovely is this silence ! The faint breeze*
Your father makes the keeper of your prison { Sleeps like an infant lull'd by its own t
K
On that dread night, when her proud father fell,
So did she lure me to her fatal snare.-—
Away, reflection ! vengeance calls me hence ;
And I obey the summons.
SCENE II.— Before the Castle. MoonHgltt.
Enter Albert, wrapped in a Venetian cloak.
Alb. I cannot be deceived !
I heard the voice of Agnes from the terrace
Call soft on Alferenzi ! if he attends
The guilty bidding, ere the twilight gleams,
Or he or I must fall ! now sullen night
Flings her star-spangled mantle o'er the globe,
And spirits hostile to the soul of man
Weave the dark web of mischief | boding* strange
Knock at my heart and make my pulses beat
As though the life-stream struggled with my
fate. [A light appears m the Tower.
That is Honoria' s chamber ; and she wakes
At this unusual hour ; 'tis passing strange !
Hah ! she approaches !
[Albert draws back. Agnes comes forth
from the Castle.
Agnes. Francisco is our friend ;
i Thus far kind fortune smiles upon our hopes I
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74 MCR8. BOBINSOITS POEMS.
Scarcely three hours have wiogM their tardy 1 Val. Oh ! thou blushing sword !
flight,
Since from the watch-tower I distinctly mark'd
The pensive Alferenzi : on a bank
O'er-canopied by odorous myrtle bough f,
With folded arms, like one not loving life,
Mournful he stood, inclining o'er the stream,
That seem'd to soothe him with its murmuring
sound. [She hears footsteps.
Now all the spirits of the night protect me !
[Exit.
AW. Oh ! busy, cunning minister of ill !
Thou draw'st thy victim to that dizzy point
From whence my sword shall hurl Jilm to de-
struction !
Come, sweet revenge,' thou haggard imp of hell,
Come, let me riot in thy iron arms,
And glut my soul with luxury of hate !
Some one approaches*— to my hiding place
Till I make sure of vengeance !
[Retires into the wood.
Enter Valmont, from behind the Castle.
Thou instrument accursed, that gave away
My foul, sin-spotted soul, where shall I hide
thee?
[ The gate opens, valmont enters.
SCENE ///.— Honoria's Chamber.
A lamp burning near a window. A door open to
the battlements, from which HoNoaiA enters.
The moon seen half concealed by clouds opposite
the door.
Hon. [ Who wears the scarf of Alferxnzi.] Agnes
not yet return'd ! That groan of death
Still vibrates on my brain, and bids me fear
For Alferenzi's safety— Heaven protect him !
[Valmont enters, with his sword drawn and his
• hand smeared with blood. He shrinks at the
sight of Honoria, who shrieks and runs to-
wards him*
Hon. Prophetic powers ! -Hah ! what am I
to think?
Why is that hand so gash'd, and stain*d with
Vol. Ha! does the coward shun me blood?
Thus have I caught the thief in his own snare : Speak, ere the current of my heart congeals,
It must be Alferenzi, like a traitor, And all my faculties freeze up with horror !
Lurking in ambush, with a villain's hand, Thou'rt deadly pale ! and the cold dew of fear
To steal a father's treasure. Day's proud lord Doth glisten on thy brow ! Alas ! my father!
Soon as he decks his eastern car with fire, [Falls on Ids neck.
Shall see the wily serpent writhe in death ! Val. [Wildly.] Peace! be silent. Heard you
Thou God of retribution ! Thou whose voice not the tempest [tion?
Bids the pale caitiff dread the thunder's bolt, That shook our lofty towers from their founda-
Now shield my arm, and let it strike securely. Saw you the black wing of the howling blast
[Exit. Sweeping our turrets, red with human gore?
[They Jight in the wood. Valmont re-enters, Hon. I pray thee, help me bind this bleeding
pale and aghast ; one hand holds a drawn hand.
rword, the other is bleeding. Honoria opens Ah ! let me call assistance— thou art feint !
a small door in the tower, and comes upon the » [Honoria binds the scarf round Valmont's
battlements. bleeding hand.
Hon. Agnes, oh ! speak ! is Alferenzi there ? Vol. Call, call the world's vast multitude to
\A deep groan issues from the wood. Valmont curse me !
starts. Let hungry vultures batten on my heart ;
Hark . Pluck out mine eyes to feed the eagle's brood,
Do my startled senses yet deceive me, Lest they, by gazing on thee, fear thy beauty I
Or did I hear a soul-departing groan Hon. Whence comes this strange disorder of
In yon dark tangled wood ? Who passes there ? thy brain ?
Speak, or the castle bell shall raise the country. Val. From that infernal gulf where guilty
It must be some unwary traveller, souls
Benighted in this, solitary gloom, Howl in despair ! Oh ! 'twas a stormy hour.
Waylaid and murder'd by conceal'd banditti ! The earth was palsied, and the vaulted spheres
Val. [Fearfully.] Be still, Honoria, 'tis thy fa- Flash'd forth indignant flames, while all around
ther, child. Pale spectres yell'd in triumph o'er the deed !
Send round a vassal to unbar the gate, Hon. Thy fancy doth beguile thy better rea-
For I am faint with anguish. \ son ;
Hon. Heavens ! why that piercing tone of I A night more still and calm I ne'er have seen .
trembling fear?
I thought, ere now, that sleep had folded you
On the soft couch of safety and repose.
1 will despatch a vassal instantly
To give you entrance. [Retires into the Tower.
•> 'Tis the sweet pause when nature sinks to rest,
I To wake again with renovated charms.
) No object seems to move, save the thin clouds,
| That, slowly floating o'er the grey expanse,
1 Veil the bright forehead of the silvery moon.
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Vol. Thou art deceived—
There is a fiend abroad with mildew wing,
Blighting creation ! Hell yawns forth monsters,
And the blue air is choked with poison'd mists,
Thickening to hide the general wreck of nature.
Say, wilt thou aid the ministers of wrath
To curse an aged father?
Hon. Heaven shield me from the thought !
Why dost thou ask such incoherent questions ?
Whose were the crimson drops that stain thy
sword?
Vol. He met me on my way— he cross'd my
path-
Revenge, unsated, panted for his blood !
Would I had perish 'd ere my sword had reach'd
him.
Hon. Whom dost thou mean ?
Vol. Thy lover !— Alferenzi !
Hon. Oh ! monstrous and inhuman ! quit my
sight,
Lest I should, darting o'er the bounds of reason,
Tear all the bonds of filial love asunder,
And brand thee with the name of an assassin !
Go, hide thyself for ever, rash old man,
For thy deep-furrow'd cheek is stampt with
murder !
Vol. Restrain thy frenzy: know, a father's
life
Depends upon thy silence : I must hence
Before the broad and blabbing eye of day
Glares on the scene of slaughter! Fare thee
well!
I would embrace thee ere we part for ever,
But that these red contaminated hands
Would stain thy white and unpolluted soul !
[Going.
Hon. Thou shalt not leave me :
Thou, whom the voice of nature taught me first
To love and honour, art more dear than ever,
Because thou art more wretched.
[She goes to embrace her father, sees the bloody
sword, and recoils with horror.
Put up that sword! It blasts my shatter' d
v senses!
Oh ! I am lost ! my wild ethereal spirit
Springs o'er the confines of this world's des-
pair,
And flies to Alferenzi !
VaL [Sheathing his sword.] Already the grey
dawn steals o'er the forest,
And tips our battlements with dusky light ;
Danger comes trembling on the wings of time,
And time, not daring to record the deed,
Flies swiftly on ! Come, let me lead thee, love.
Hon. [ Wildly.] Oh ! lead me where all mem-
ory shall fade ;
Where blank oblivion desolates the scene !
Yet, stay ; I have a secret to unfold.
Seest thou yon star, that in the rosy East
Stands, like a lacquey, at the gates of day,
Scattering afar the shadow-vested clouds
SICILIAN LOVER.
That on the glittering
75
on the guttering threshold lingering
hung?
AH will be well ! The sun will warm his breast,
And Heaven's own tears, unseen by 'mortal
eyes.
Will consecrate his grave ! so pure is pity *
Enter Francisco. Honoria endeavours to con-
ceal her father, particularly his hand.
Hon. [To Fran, wildly.] Well? Is he dead?
What else has brought thee hither?
All guiltless souls devote this hour to sleep ;
Then why are we still waking? Who art thou?
Fran. Forgive me, lady, for this bold intru-
sion;
But the deep groans I heard beneath our walls
Urged me to seek the Marquis
Hon. Why? what is it to him? He knows
not of it ;
And if he did, 'tis now, alas ! past cure.
Vol. This is the wandering of her scatter'd
thoughts ;
Do not disturb her farther; now, good night;
Get thee to bed [sternly], and when the sun
peeps forth,
We'll to the forest— but your lady's safety,
Her mind disordered by some unknown cause,
Requires that I should watch her for a time ;
Nay, no reply. Francisco, fare thee well.
[Exit Francisco.
Come, let me lead thee.
Hon. Would it were to my grave ! [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.— A
Pavilion
Castle.
at Montalva's
Enter the Prince Montalva meeting
Francisco.
Fran. Oh ! venerable Prince ! I've news to
tell
Will seize the feeble fibres of thy brain,
And though thy nerves could mock the temper'd
steel,
Would shiver them with horror L
Mont. Where's my son?
All the long night I watch'd for his return.
Heaven grant no ill betide him.
Fran. Well I know,
He that reports ill news ungracious seems,
Howe'er his phrase be fashion'd : therefore hear
A tale that mocks all harmony of speech !
Startled by groans of anguish, I arose
Ere I had press'd my pillow one short hour.
And to the forest, where the towers of Val-
mont
Rear their dark battlements, pursued my way ;
There, hold my heart while I reveal a story
Big with all Hell's worst horrors ! your brave
son
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76 MRS, ROBINSOITS
Lay by the thicket side, a piteous cow* ; t Alf. Say on, fair Agnes! To the tortured
The ruddy stream once mantling e'er his cheek
Had flown to drench a dire assassin's sword !
Mont. Nay, then, my weary journey soon
will end,
And my long pilgrimage of worldly wo
Fade like a feverish dream ! The source is still
From whence my spring of rapture rose so
bright!
The flower that deck'd my silver hairs is dead !
Blasted and scatter'd by the ruthless storm !
Fran. Oh ! 'twas a cruel deed—
Mont. Alas ! Francisco i
And shall 1 never see my child again ?
Never, in converse sweet, beguile the hour
That closes life's dull scene? It is most strange,
So near the castle, and at night's still noon,
When every moaning breeze distinctly steals
O'er meditation's ear, to be so butcher'd !
Fran. I know not what to think; yet much
I fear
Some secret malice urged the murderer's sword
More than the hope of plunder.
Mont. Even so !
Oh ! good Francisco ! Heaven absolve my soul,
If, without proof, I judge a fellow creature ;
But shrewd suspicion points at Alferenzi :
A rival's hate alone could prompt an act
So fraught with ruin ! Oh ! my gallant Albert !
Fran. Say, shall I lead you to him? The
rude swains
And village girls have strew'd his graceful corse,
And every fragrant bud was steep'd in tears.
Mont. Ah! let me not behold him for my
eyes,
If once they fix'd upon my murder'd boy,
Would start with anguish from their humid
spheres,
And yield me up to darkness ! Here I swear,
Never to cherish hope or seek repose
Till I have dragg'd the cursed assassin forth,
And, by the last deep groan that rends his heart,
Appeased the spirit of my valiant son !
[Exeunt.
SCENE F.— In the Castle of V almost.
Enter Alferinzi s and Aonis.
Alf. Gone! said'st thou, Agnes? Both at break
of day,
Their course unknown, sudden, and unattended,
What can it mean ? Tell me, good gentle dam-
sel,
Left she no word of kind remembrance for me?
Ag net. I knew not of their flight till they de-
parted;
Before the midnight hour crept half way on
To that which time proclaims the new-born day,
With sighs and tears, and many earnest prayers,
She vow'd her love and truth to Alferenzi.
wretch,
Stung by the poisonous spider to the heart,
The sound of minstrelsy is not so sweet !
Agnes. Wrung to the soul by a stern father's
rage,
Last night she form'd the fetal resolution,
In cold monastic gloom to end her days ;
And scarce an hour before her sudden flight
Me she despatch'd to give you timely notice,
That to the forest she would steal at midnight,
And, by the waning lustre of the moon,
Bid her fond hopes and you farewell for ever.
Alf. Oh ! most inhuman thought ! most bar-
barous wish !
Why did she fail to keep her promise then ?
Agnes. Alas! I know not: after tedious
search
To find you wandering at th' appointed place,
I basten'd to the castle, where I found
The outward gate unbarr'd — I pass'd along
The solitary courts, o'erwhelm'd with fear !
No light appear' d around the spacious pile,
Save a small lamp, which at a lattice grate
Shot from the western tower a feeble ray.
Alf. Why from the western tower? Who
rested there?
Agnes. It was the prison of my lovely mis-
tress. [ALFxaEVZi starts.
The melancholy stillness of the night
Made my own footsteps echo as I trod
The gothic cloisters that surround the courts :
On the white marble of the banner' d hall
I mark'd fresh drops of blood ! and further on —
Alf. Hold! ftnd be careful, I conjure thee,
Agnes;
There is more terror in those little words
Than in the prospect of eternal pangs.
The father of Honoria! Oh! my soul,
This is thy last dread trial— she is dead !
The barbarous fiend has blotted Nature's page,
And written murder with his poniard cursed
Steep'd in the fountain of his daughter's heart !
Agnes. Next to the chamber of my darling
mistress
I flew, with hurried step and beating heart;
There, strew'd about, I saw her rich apparel,
That deck'd her person when I parted from
her;
Her cross of brilliants, and her emerald zone,
Thrown carelessly aside.
Alf. Oh ! damned monster !
Agnes. Then, wild with horror ! to the north-
ern tower,
Where the stern father erst was wont to pass
The midnight hour in sullen meditation,
I rush'd impatient.; 'twas the dawn of day,
And through the painted casement's purple light
Cast a faint lustre on the fearful gloom.
I gazed around me—
Alf. Was the blood there too?
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THE SICILIAN XiOVBR.
77
Jgnei. Yes ; on the garment of the haughty
marquis:
fhe vest he wore last night was crimson-spotted
With human gore; scarce cold when X beheld it!
Alf. Oh! 'tis most sure.
Agnes< Now hear me, Alferenzi ;
Prepare thy soul to meet another proof,
As black as hell itself ! I then descended
By a small winding staircase, dark and damp,
To the long gallery where, in pictured pomp,
The steel-clad ancestors of Valmont hung.
The clock struck three ! Beneath the fretted roof
The hollow-sounding echo lingering stole !
I started ! Horror chain'd me to the spot !
When, gazing on the ground with fear-fiVd eyes,
I mark'd this blood-stain'd scarf, which, when
Heft
My angel mistress, veil'd her beauteous breast !
Alfmenzi, taking the scarf.
Oh I horrible! beyond what thought can
frame I [Puis the icarfinto his bosom.
Grow to my anguish'd heart. Oh I wounded
nature I
If in my breast one spark of mercy gleams,
Let these red drops extinguish it for ever!
JZnter Francisco.
Francisco, where's thy mistress? quickly speak.
Fran. I fear, most noble Sir, she's in her
grave*
When last I saw her—
Alf. Was she not living ?
Fran. Scarcely, my lord; so sadly wan she
look'd,
That my old eyes did make my manhood blush
Through many a trickling tear.
Alf. Poor victim!
And didst'thou leave her so, unfeeling slave?
Fran. My lord, I left her to a father's care ;
She seem'd most deeply troubled ; for her words
Were incoherent, wild, and sorrowful !
I would have call'd assistance, hut the marquU
Commanded me to leave them.
Alf. Alone! Francisco?
Fran. Alone, my lord ; I dared not disobey;
His looks were terrible, and much 1 fear
Some direful purpose rankled in his soul.
Alf. Francisco, get thee hence; and let thy
zeal
Give strict observance to thy searching eye.
Explore all secret corners of the castle,
Each darken'd niche, and every lofty tower ;
Murder's a lurking fiend, and shuns the gaze
Of broaoVeyed Honesty ! Now fare thee well.
[Extt Francisco.
Agnes, this father is a vile assassin !
A barbarous monster, sacrilegious slave !
Who to the demon of insatiate wrath
Has sacrificed the life of his deai* child!
Oh ! thou fell wolf, could not so sweet a lamb,
With all the graceful eloquence of nature,
Arrest thy butcher hand, and turn the knife
On thy own cursed and most relentless bosom !
All Erebus, conspiring with thy fate,
Sent forth its blackest fiend to aid the deed,
And drag thy trembling soul to deep perdition !
Agnes. 'Tis likely noble Albert interposed
Too late to save Honoria, and was slain
By the rash marquis to impede pursuit.
Alf. Impossible ! none but the famish' d tiger
TVould kill the thing it loved; if Valmont'a
soul
Could bend a moment from its churlish mood,
That Albert was the dearest to his heart.
Alas ! Honoria was his only victim !
Her bosom was the unpolluted temple
Where innate truth, majestically throne&
Fear'd not the subtle glance of malice fell,
Till, like the basilisk, it seal'd its prey,
And feasted on its idol ! All the earth
I'll traverse o'er to seek the monstrous villain;
And may the blue-wing'd bolts of heaven destroy
me,
If e'er I rest till vengeance is complete !
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE L—The inside of a cavern. The setting
sun seen through a chasm in the rock. Ricarpo
and other banatyi discovered drinking.
Ric. 'Tis strange, that through this solitary
wood
No traveller has pass'd since yester-dawn !
Beshrew me but I'm weary of our trade ;
Knaves are so multiplied, that honest men
Live better than ourselves ; and more secure,
For each depends upon himself alone.,
2d Rob. Ricardo, dost thou doubt our firm al-
liance?
Ric. In truth, not I ; it is the time's disease
That palsies honesty ; for villains thrive
In such profusion of victorious guilt,
That secrecy is useless to our calling.
Why skulk in cavern' d mountains, shrink from
light,
And lurk in ambush for the traveller's gold,
While in the broad effulgence of full noon,
In cities throng'd with gaping multitudes,
The bolder caitiff plunders all secure !
3d Rob. Thou know'st the world, Ricardo.
Rtc. Yes; enough
To make me shun one half the race of man,
And pity all the rest ! so frail is nature !
1st Rob. Discrimination finds no easy taak
In searching the gay paths of busy life,
Where all is outward artificial show,
Put on to varnish falsehood.
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78 MRS.
Ric, True; but deception wears so thin a
mask,
That stern philosophy ne'er fails to note it.
Whatever shape, complexion, or disguise,
Hypocrisy may take, of ermined robe,
Or threadbare vestment scant, or witching
smile,
Or cynic brow austere, it cannot hide
The base deformity that lurks within ;
The bold and ragged knave less dangerous still
Than he who pranks him in a cloth of gold !
Val. {Without,) Hillo! within there.
• Ric. Silence, good fellows :
Let us retire, and shrewd observance make
Of our unwary guest ; perchance some poor
And wo- worn pilgrim here would find a nook
To shield his body from the midnight blast :
Do not forget, my comrades, we are men.
[Exeunt to the inner cave.
Enter Valmont, in the habit of a Vassal, support-
ing Honoeia, who has a white veil partly thrown
off her face: she enters fearfully.
Val. Here nothing can molest thee. Night
draws near,
And ere dim shadows shroud the twilight
gleam
I'll venture forth ; not far from this lone spot
I mark'd a clustering vineyard, whose scorch'd
bank
Was kindly freshen'd by a limpid spring,
That from the neighbouring steep meandering
flow'd ;
They shall supply our solitary meal ;
And, when the smiling yellow-vested morn
Crowns with a wreath of gold the eastern hill,
We will pursue our journey. Cheerly, love ;
Look up, and all our miseries will end.
Hon. Think'st thou that murder will not cry
aloud,
And rouse the fates to vengeance? Will yon
Heaven,
Whose beamy eye encompasseth the world,
Wink at the deed of horror ? Every thorn
That festers in the deeply- wounded mind
May from Time's lenient power a balsam take
To draw its poison forth ; save where the hand,
Blurr'd with the life-stream of a fellow crea-
ture,
Contaminates the means ordain'd to heal,
And leaves the wretch past cure.
Val. [Grasping his sword.] 'Twere best to die !
That cure at least is ready to my grasp ;
Thou know'st I am no coward —
Hon. Dreadful thought !
Oh ! wouldst thou then destroy thy better part,
Turn from the balsam Heaven in pity leaves
To cleanse thy soul's deep wound and seal its
pardon ?
ROBXHSOITS POEMS.
Wouldst thou sum up the dark account of hor-
• rors.
And, by the sure damnation of thy deed,
Rush from this transitory scene of anguish
To the dread chaos of eternal wo ?
Vol. The complicated pangs that rend my
heart
Would melt the ministers of wrath to mercy.
Hon. But will not justice urge her sacred
claim ?
Will not the tongues of men denounce the act
That bids humanity recoil, aghast?
Val. Why did I quit my home ? My lofty
state
Had silenced busy clamour, and forbade
The breath of calumny to taint my name I
Hon. Oh! empty sophistry; delusive hope !
'Tis in thy greatness thy conviction lies.
Unseen, the sweetest low-born buds decay ;
But the proud cedar, towering on the rock,
Stands like a land-mark to attract men's eyes ;
And, though it shares the bright meridian blaze,
It cannot 'scape the pelting of the storm.
Val. Soon as my footsteps greet Helvetia'*
land,
I may defy my fate, for there, secure,
What slave shall menace Valmont?
Ric. [Observing them from the inner cave.] Val-
mont !
Val. Hah! heard'st thou not a voice, with
hollow sound,
Repeat the name of Valmont ?
Hon. Such it seem'd—
'Twas but the echo of this vaulted cave.
Now let me rest ; and while you venture forth
To seek refreshing fruits, I'll watch and pray !
Val. I will not leave thee long ; and Heaven,
1 trust,
Will guard me till my weary steps return.
[Exit.
Hon. Now all is still, and terrible as death !
Here meditation fearfully employs
The melancholy hour ; yet unappall'd
Hood- wink' d destruction seems to stalk secure !
What, if my father should no more return
How shall I find my way? where seek re-
pose?
Oh, Alferenzi! [Taking a picture from her bosom.]
if thy spirit blest
Could visit these dread haunts thou wouldst ap-
pear
To soothe me with a gleam of consolation !
Ric [Still observing her. ] I will protect thee .
Hon. Celestial Powers ! again the airy voice
Of some prophetic spirit strikes my soul
With petrifying sounds ! Perhaps this cave,
Fill'd with enchantment, is the dark abode
Of spectres horrible, whose bleeding wounds
Make ghastly show of murder unavenged !
An icy langour creeps along my veins,
Forewarning me of danger near at hand I
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SICEUAW
My father, oh ! return.— He hears me not !
Where shall I hide me? all within is death!
And all without, a solitary wild,
Bestrew'd with thorns and perilous to tread ?
This inner cavern will be less exposed
To the night's nipping air—
[The Robbers rush forth.
God ! defend me ! What is your intent ?
1 do expect some mercy, as you hope
Yourselves to be forgiven I
2d. Rob. What are you, lady ?
Jlotu The wretched offspring of a wretched
sire;
A wandering exile from my native home ;
Too poor for plunder, and too proud to weep ;
For I believe that virtue bears a charm
Which bids the boldest villain shrink appalTd.
Sd. Rob. [Seizing Honoria.] Nay, if you
brave us— ^you shall know our power !
Ric. Ruffian! stand back. Sweet lady, you
are safe !
For he that lifts his sacrilegious hand
To strike at helpless woman, shames mankind,
And sinks his coward soul so deep in hell,
That nature scorns to own him ! Spare your
thanks;
I will defend you ; we are desperate men ;
But cruelty can never urge that sword
Which courage vaunts the bearing.
Hon. Generous man !
Now I can weep ! But they are thankful tears !
Wrongs urge the soul to vengeance, and call
forth
That pride which proves the antidote to grief;
But kindness steals so sweetly o'er the sense,
So melts the throbbing heart with tender joy,
That, as the sun darts forth amidst the Storm,
The eye of grateful rapture beams through tears !
Ric. Soon must I leave you, for the hour
draws near
Which calls us to our watchful occupation.
Hon. [Kneeling to Ricardo.] O! hear me.
If in your pathway you should chance to meet
A venerable man, for my sake spare him !
His years are nearly number'd ; let him live
To make his peace with Heaven ! for much, I
He's not prepared for death . [fear,
Ric. He shall be safe.
Now, let me counsel you to seek repose.
In yon small cavern lies a rushy couch,
Where innocence may taste of balmy dreams,
For guilt has often slumber' d there secure !
Lady, Heaven guard you ! [Exeunt banditti.
Hon. Thou art not used to pray ! and yet thy
voice
May find swift passport to the realms of grace,
When pious fraud may supplicate in vain ;
For thou art merciful ! Alas ! I fear
Some savage thing hath cross'd my father's way ;
The prowling wolf; or, what is far more fell,
Man, without pity for his hapless kind !
LOVER* 79
Thou solitary den, where guilt retires
To hold fierce converse with the fiends accursed,
Undaunted I approach thee ! for that power
Which guards the cradled infant while it sleeps,
Sustains the labouring bark amidst the storm,
A nd, while the tempest rends the mountain pine,
Shields the poor shepherd's cot, will not forsake
The child of sorrow in the hour of rest !
[Exit to the inner cave.
SCENE II.— Night.
On one side, the Apennines, with the entrance of a
Cavern halfway up; on the other, a thick wood.
Enter Valmont.
Vol. Oh ! what a lost and wretched thing is
man!
Who, bold in hell's worst embassy, will start
At the small rustling of a beetle's wing !
The wind that moans along these cavern'd cliff*
Seems like the murmurs of a thousand tongues
That tell my soul's undoing ! The faint stars,
The many-million eyes- of prying Heaven,
Gleam humid, and surcharged with nature's
tears!
Yet what of that ? 'Tis but my mind's disease,
That feeds faint reason with portentous signs,
And makes it sicken at the touch of thought !
What have I not committed that Heaven
loathes ?
First, in the ghastly train of hellish crimes,
A noble brother, who in my defence
Slew a proud Milanese, beheld in me
His cursed accuser ; and, to exile driven,
Left me the lord of all his vast domains.
Next, a chaste wife I banish'd from her home ;
My fickle sense was sated with her charms,
And meaner beauties triumph'd in their turn {
Wheije shall my feverish conscience find repose ?
All the long sunny day, when Summer smiles,
And leads old Time in flowery garlands on,
A living spectre, hopeless and forlorn,
I journey forth to an oblivious grave ?
Nor at that fearful goal will the dread strife
Feel blissful termination ; for beyond
The rending pangs that warn the trembling soul
From its clay habitation, reason tells
Of something terrible ! and yet so sure, [stirs?
That nature starts to think on't ! Hark, what
[ Alferenzi appears in the wood, and the day
begins to dawn.
Is it the potent fever of my brain
That takes my coward fancy prisoner,
Or do I hear the sound of mortal tread ?
[After listening and looking round.
'Twas but the waving of the sun-parch'd boughs,
Whose tawny canopy o'erspreads the wood.
[Valmont advances towards the cavern* Al-
ferenzi rushes forward.
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MRS. R OBTO 801TS POEMS.
VaL Horrible spectre! wherefore doet thou
haunt me ?
Why from the shrouded pallet of the grave
Present the form of murder' d Alferenzi?
In pity hence ; for know, that spirits pure
Can hold no converse with a damned wretch,
In whose convulsive soul all hell is raging !
Away! Away!
Alf. Valmont, thy hour draws near ;
I know thee, and will try what guardian fiend
Will blunt my sword, uplifted to destroy thee !
What wraps thee so in horrible conceit ?
Val. Thick mystery ! that dims the mental eye,
And makes us, scarce believe us that we are,
Seeing, what cannot be ! 'Tis all illusion.
Alf. Strike at my heart, inexorable parent !
Or guard thy own, for one of us must fall.
[Drawing his sword.
Val. If Alferenzi lives, then all is well !
Alf. All is not well, prevaricating slave !
Draw, draw thy sword ; let Heaven decide be-
tween us.
Val. [Drawing his sword.'] Then be it so!
Though thou hast once escaped ;
Thou'rt not invulnerable : now, come on ;
I'll teach thy tongue to quell its lofty phrase,
Or perish in the combat.
[ Theyjight j Honoria rushes forth from the ca-
vern, and stands before the entrance.
Hon. Oh ! spare him ! spare him !
[ Alferenzi drops his sword.
Barbarian, do not kill an aged man,
Or stay thy sword, and let me perish with him.
[Honoria descends; Alferenzi recedes.
Alf. Thou sainted spirit ! shade of my Hon-
oria!
That, like an angel, comest to turn my sword,
And save my soul, thirsting for blood of man,
Do not approach me ! every trembling nerve
Obeys thy potent eye, and the cold drops
That bathe my brain will quench the ray of
reason.
Hon. [Val. leans against a tree."] He lives ! he
lives ! It is my Alferenzi !
Light of my life ! dearer than life itself!
[Embracing.
Oh ! do these eyes behold thee once more
breathing 9
My father, here, before the face of Heaven,
Kneel, and adore the minister of pity, [us !
Who, bending from its sphere, restores him to
[Valmont appears pale and faint. Honoria
supports him,
Speak ! art thou hurt ? Hah ! from thy mangled
breast
The life-stream gushes ! Ye relentless powers !
Turn not the measure of my joy to wo !
[Vximovt falls; Honoria kneels.
Let me support thee : look upon thy child :
Oh! speak, for I must hear thy voice once
To say, that thou fbrgWest me: Save him,
Heaven!
Val. Sweet Image of a chaste and injured
saint!
A dying father's blessing shall be thine.
Hon. Thou shalt not die ; I cannot live to see
Those darling eyes closed in the sleep of death !
VaL Brave Alferenzi ! I believed thee mur-
der 'd ;
In the dark-tangled wood that skirts our castle,
I saw thee fall, thrice wounded by my sword.
Alf. Thy victim was duke Albert! Hapless
Valmont, [justice '
Heaven's sure to hear when murder cries tot
Hon. Oh ! misery supreme ! oh ! my lost
mther!
Vol. If yet the noble Leonardo lives,
Seek out his lone asylum, and restore
The just possession of his rich domains ;
Tell him, that Heaven at last avenged his
wrongs,
And humbled his proud brother to the dust !
Now let me press thee to my streaming heart ;
[ To Honoria.
Alas ! my parting sigh will soon extinguish
The feeble lamp of life, and my last pang
Pay the dread forfeit which my crimes demand !
[Dies.
Hon. [To Alf.] Now, is thy rage appeased?
If thy fell soul
Still pants for Valmont's blood, strike here!
this heart,
This bursting heart, will scorn to sue for pity.
Alf. Do not distract me with thy fierce re-
proaches ;
A dread coincidence of time and act
Drew me from Reason's empire to Despair !
Dire and disastrous as the deed may seem,
'Twas to avenge thy wrongs that I am guilty;
For I believed that Valmont— thy assassin !
Let me entreat thee to be patient, love.
Hon. Hence with thy feign'd contrition ! my
weak brain
Burns with the frenzy thou hast heap'd upon it.
Alf. This sight will make thee mad ! Quit,
quit the scene,
Nor feed the gnawing anguish of thy soul.
Soon will I bear thee to my native shores,
Where, 'midst the fond endearments of new
friends,
Of noble kindred, and resplendent joys,
The memory of past grief shall fade away.
Hon. [Rising.] Oh! 'twill not be! This is
my destined home '.
I'd rather wander like a pilgrim poor !
Toil, like a slave who in the torrid blaze
Curses the sun that raark'd him for despair,
Than journey thither : here will I remain.
Oh ! the vast sum of my disastrous life
Seems like an atom to this world of wo I
Honoria returns to the bodp.
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THE SICILIAN LOVER.
81
Yet let me kiss that cheek, pale and distorted.
Stern was thy aspect, yet my soul would give
Half its dear hopes of an immortal crown
To see those eyes but once more gaze upon me.
But they are dark, closed in the sleep of death.
Alf. Let me conceal thee in some spot secure,
While to the earth I give this breathless corse.
I do not covet life, deprived of thee,
And wilt thou doom me to the torturing rack ?
Canst thou behold this throbbing, loyal heart,
Mangled and bleeding as a public show ?
Wilt thou not shudder when the rabble's shout
Shall drown the agonising groan of death ?
Hon. Oh! do not torture me; alas! my
soul
Already shrinks beneath its weight of grief.
Wherefore deny a murder'd father's dust
The holy incense of a filial tear ?
No other rite will consecrate his grave !
Alf. Delay brings danger; see, the purple
dawn
Is gayly tissued o'er with beamy gold 1
The merry birds begin their matin songs,
And new-born glory animates the scene !
Let me conceal thee in yon cavern'd cliff.
Hon. Ha! now I do bethink me, wretched
man !
This is no place for parley ! Yon dark cave
Is the dread haunt of robbers : get thee hence ;
Danger and death await thee ! Oh ! begone.
Alf. What ! leave foee to the mercy of ban-
ditti?
Forsake thee, helpltss, faint, forlorn and sad,
To be the victim of wild rioters !
The sport of ruffians— lawless, cut-throat
knaves!
Beside yon mountain a poor clay-built shed
I slightly noted as I pass'd along;
Fly, fly thee thither ; I will follow soon.
Hon. Oh ! dread alternative ! oh ! cruel
task!
Betake thyself to flight, ill-fated man .'
For we must meet no more ! One little word,
One parting sigh, still struggles at my heart !
Ha ! look not so upon me ! Is it thus
Oar intercourse must end ? our radiant morn
Of love, and hope, and youth, and tender joy,
Shadow'd by sorrow, and convulsed with
storms !—
Go to thy splendid home, thy friends await
thee;
Death is preparing in the silent tomb
A lonely bed, where I Bhall sleep at peace.
[Exit.
Alf. Now in yon cave will I conceal this
corse;
And then, O God 1 teach me to hide myself
From my own knowledge ! Busy, busy
thought,
Away, and let oblivion be thy grave!
[He advances towards the body; the scene closes.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.— A Wood. Morning.
Enter the Prince Montalva, and Francisco*
Mon. 'Twas a1 the entrance of this lonely
wood
My mules were to be station'd— are they come ?
Fran. Not yet, my lord ; so, please you, wait
awhile
In this cool shade ; the sun swift journeys high,
And soon will shed intolerable day.
Mon. Is there no lowly hut where we may
rest?
Affliction preys upon my feeble frame,
And bends me to the earth : I fain would live
A little while, to do an act of justice.
My vassals all are arm'd, and on the watch,
And yet we have no tidings ! Let us seek
Some hospitable shed to stay their coming.
Fran. Among the craggy hills, not far from
hence,
An hermit dwells ; a poor, but holy man !
Time that has furrow d o'er his meagre cheek
Ne'er saw it blush for any act of shame :
His herds, his vineyard, foster'd by his band,
Repay his labours with that homely fare
Which conscious virtue renders passing sweet !
If in so low a dwelling you can rest,
I think you'll be right welcome.
Mon. Well I know,
'Tie not beneath the gilded dome of state,
Nor 'midst the gaudy sycophantic tribe,
That peace delights to dwell ; she bends her way
To the poor hermit's hospitable roof,
Where liberty, the fairest child of Heaven !
Smiles on his board, and with her sacred voice
Bids him look down upon the high-born base,
Though great in splendour, if they're less than
men.
Now to the mountain hut. Lead on, Francisco.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. — Amongthe Apennines. Leonardo,
as an hermit, comes forth from a small hut, with
two baskets and a wicker bottle.
Enter the Prince Montalva and Francisco.
Fran, Good father, bless you !
Leon. Thanks for your greeting;
And bless you, gentle son ; is it your wish
To stay awhile, and mend your strength with
food?
Mont. We'll enter, honest heart, with your
good leave ;
And for your cheer will recompense you nobly.
Leon. Divine benevolence repays itself;
And much it grieves me to deny your suit :
But my good-will is shackled by restraint,
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8S
MRS. BOBENSOCTS POEMS.
While seeming churlishness, in truth, is pity.
Mont, We will not be denied.
Leon. [Guarding his hut y and setting down his
basket, Sooth, but you must !

Not for an empire should your footsteps pass
This narrow threshold. I will bring you food.
Fran. What dost thou mean ? Thy miserable
hut
Hath never shelter'd yet a guest so noble.
Leon. Think'st thou I prize the gifts which
fortune owns ?
If he has true nobility of soul,
He towers above the attributes of wealth,
And wants no other charm to make him great !
But wherefore scoff at this, my poor abode?
It is mine qwn— these withered hands did raise
it:
My board is simply strew' d ; but what of that ?
'Tis with the gifts of Heaven ! and who shall
say
The proudest mortal can be better fed ? <
I natter no man, and am no man's slave !
My garb is coarse and scant ; but let the vain,
Wrapp'd in the vital labours of the worm,
Say if their pulses beat as calm as mine !
No bed of down or canopy of gold
Here pampers feverish luxury to rest ;
But on my lonely pillow temperance waits,
And prompts repose that splendour cannot give !
How many deck'd in all the pride of state,
With ermine stole, and starry wreath of gems,
Would gladly lay their guilty trappings by,
To taste the tranquil joys that mark the hours
In what thou call'st, my miserable hut !
Mont. [Taking out his purse.] Then do not act
the churl ; and drive us hence,
Wanting the lowly lodging we would hire
At ten-fold value : this will buy men's souls,
And tempt the sternest sanctity to sin !
Bid the cold anchoret renounce his vows ;
The rosy vestal sell her youthful hopes,
To wed with shrivelTd age ; and, with its gloss
So dazzle mortal eyes, that Nature smiles
To see philosophers the slaves of fools,
And her own dross, the bribe of their disho-
nour.
What cannot gold subdue?
Leon. Philanthropy!—
That sympathetic love of human kind
Which instinct cherishes in souls sublime !
Which bids pale misery raise the languid eye,
While the recording cherub seals the bond
That Heaven repays with rapture !
Mont. Thy words most strangely contradict
thy deeds !
Thou talk'st of kindness, yet with churlish mien
* Bidst the lorn traveller with hunger faint.
Shame on the wretch who vaunts humanity
But to draw forth the misery he mocks,
With curious eye to scrutinize the heart,
And yet refuse the pity that would heal it !
He has no right to pry into my fortunes
Who has no tear to mitigate their woes !
Leon. Nay, now you rate me with reproach
so keen,
That my old eyes are drown'd in drops of grief.'
Full twenty winters have my weary feet
Trod the white pathway of these frozen hills ;
Yet never did I bar my humble cell
Against the traveller faint ; but I have sworn,
And may I perish if I break my oath,
To shield from every eye the gorgeous gem
That casket rude contains ! Forth I repair'd
To gather fruits and rob the limpid spring
For my sweet fugitive, who seems most sad
And vanquished by despair. Are ye not men?
And can ye blame or wonder at the zeal
That snatches beauteous woman from the grave?
Long have I braved the bleak and stormy wind ;
Forsworn all intercourse with worldly joy ;
Lived a poor hermit, cheerless and alone !—
When the fann'd snow fell fast upon my roof,
Whole nights I've listen'd to the howling
wolves ; [cheek ;—
Fear never thrilTd my heart, nor blanch'd my
Yet have I not the courage to behold
A fellow creature fell, whom I could save !
Mont. A task so pious must not be delay'd.
Pursue thy way, good heart, and, trust my
word,
I will not trespass, or with curious eye
Profane thy dwelling blest ! but near the door
Will watch with zeal so pure, that none shall
dare
To pass the threshold.
Leon. I will soon return ;
My vineyard is hard by : be of good cheer.
[Exit Leonardo.
Fran. Oft have I seen this melancholy sage,
When by the side of these snow-mantled cliffs
I chased the fire-eyed wolf. His manners mild
And hospitable cell have spread his fame
Beyond the borders of the rushing Po ;
For many an infant, on its grandsire's knee,
With fond attention and inquiring eye,
Prattles of good Anselmo.
Mont. Anselmo!
He that is named the hermit of the cliffs ?
Fran. The same ; and much it moves surprise
in all,
That so much virtue, and so rich a mind,
Should give to solitude their cheerless days.
Re-enter Leonardo.
Leon. First to my beauteous fugitive, and
then
Together we will make our healthful meal.
Here, courteous stranger, spread the frugal treat
On the green bank, and I'll return to bless it
[ Gives one basket to Francisco, and wiih tlte
other enters the cell, but instantly relvrns.
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Zewi. She sleeps ! The weary senses charged
with grief [health
Are numb'd by their own anguish, stealing
E'en from the poison that did sicken them !
Mont. In. troth, good hermit, you excite my
wonder!
Nor can ingenious reason find a cause
Why choice should lead you to a spot so drear,
That spurr'd necessity recoils to yiew it !
Leon. Alas ! a story so replete with wo,
So full of horror, will but move your pity !
Sprung from an ancient race, my morn of life
Gave the bright earnest of a lustrous day ;
But in those hours when young intemperate
blood
Seizes the fever of uncurb'd desire,
It is not strange that reason's sober ray
Was quench'd and smother' d by impetuous
breath. [name !—
A friend!— Oh! how did he blaspheme the
Woo'd a sweet lady : she was Milan's rose ;
That shed rich lustre on each humbler flower !
Her sire adored her, and with tender care
Sought such alliance as might grace her birth.
My friend was but his father's youngest son,
And small his means, compared with his de-
scent.
One fatal night, 'twas when the blushing spring
Fann'd my warm bosom with the austral breeze,
Flush'd with the grape, in merry, harmless
mood,
Beneath her lofty window we repair'd,
And, with the dulcet tinkling Mandolin,
Beguil'd her of her rest. The father watch'd,
And on my young associate fiercely sprang,
Who, all unarm'd, was sinking to the ground.
Mont. So fell my gallant boy! and did he
perish?
Leon. Urged on to frenzy by this bold assault,
I rush'd between them, saved the friend I loved,
And smote the barbarous ruffian on the breast :
He fell, his own stiletto reach'd his heart !
'Twas a rash deed, but could I tamely see
The dear companion of my youthful days
Vanqui8h'd and murder'd by a villain's hand ?
Mont. And did he wed the cause of your
mishap?
Leon. He did ; and, to requite my honest zeal,
Turn'd, like a serpent, on my fostering breast,
And stung the heart that loved him ! With fell
rage,
Threaten 'd, himself, to be my base accuser,
And spurn'd me from him like a guilty slave !
Disgusted with the treachery of his soul,
I fled ; and from that fatal hour have been
The solitary tenant of this cell,
The scene of meditation, prayer, and peace !
Mont. Cursed be the villain, wheresoe'er he
dwells!
Leon. Oh ! do not curse him ; for he
my brother !
Mont. Of noble birth, and yet so vile a soul !
Leon. All outward semblance of attractive
grace,
Hereditary splendours, beauty, valour,
Wit, learning, fancy, eloquence divine !
Where godlike virtue dwells not in the soul,
May feed upon the vapour, adulation,
And boast an unsubstantial glittering name,
That dazzles only for a fleeting day.
But innate glory shall outstrip the grave f
And shine when all of pageantry and pride,
Like the false meteors on the wings of night,
Shall waste in empty air !
Enter Honoria from the Hermitage.
Mont. Mysterious Heaven! Honoria still
alive! [Aside.
Hon. Hapless Montalva ! whither bend thy
way?
I counsel thee to seek thy peaceful home,
Nor thus pursue the phantom of revenge.
Remember, he who can forgive his foe,
Is nobler far than he that bids him die !
We all can kill; and, vaunting our own
strength,
We crush the thing we hate ; but can we give
The spark that bids the meanest reptile breathe !
Oh ! did the powerful dare with impious rage
To murder the defenceless, who, alas !
Could look with rapture for to-morrow's dawn?
Mont. I go to seek the murderer of my son.
Hon. Then spare thy feeble age such thriftless
toil;
The murderer of thy son sleeps in the grave !
He was as dear to this afflicted heart
As Albert was to thine.
Mont. Misguided girl !
Thy caution thinly veils the wretch thou lov'st;
That villain, Alferenzi, was't not he?
Hon. Old man, I Will not tell thee who it
was; >
For, if his death will not appease thy wrath,
Thou hast no Christian mercy in thy soul,
And art not worth my pity !
Alf. [S])eaking vrilhout.] Where is this cell,
good fellow?
Thou dost not give thy feet that willing zeal
Wliich my impatience urges.
Enter Alferenzi. jSeeing Montalva and
Honoria, he stops suddenly and amazed.
Montalva !
Hah ! how is this ? Am I at last betray'd ?
My feet seem rooted to this speck of earth,
And guilty pangs convulse my tortured frame !
Shake off thy blood-stain'd garb, my trembling
soul,
And let a brighter semblance cheat men's eyes.
It will not be! I dare not meet their glance.
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MRS. BOBHISOire POEMS.
Hen. [To Altzrznzi, aside.'] Thy crime is
secret as the will of Heaven.
Alf. [Montalva and Leonardo talk aside.'}
I cannot spurn this busy fiend away :
Is this what men call conscience? Oh! 'tis
hell!
I am a wretch, a coward J Leave me, leave me.
Mon. Well may'st thou start, and tremble at
my gaze,
Thou homicide abhorred ! now meet thy fate ;
'Tis Albert's sword thaH strikes thee.
[They fight.
Honoria [Rushing between them.] He did not
kill thy son ; the murderer was
Mon. Who?
Hon. My father ! Marquis Valmont.
Leon. My brother!
Hon. Oh ! all ye hosts of heaven ! Do I be-
hold
The venerable, noble Leonardo !
Leo. Let my tears answer thee, before their
source
Is petrified with wonder ! O my child,
Art thou the offspring of ill-fated Valmont?
[Embracing Honoria.
Mon. Most injured Leonardo, heaven at
length
Has paid the recompense thy virtues claim'd.
We will return to Valmont, where thy life
Shall, like the sun that triumphs o'er the storm,
Amidst resplendent glory sink to rest !
Leon. Now let us, in my solitary cell,
Refresh our weary spirits for a time ;
Then each shall tell his melancholy tale,
And shed a kindly sympathetic tear,
To wash away the traces of past wo !
[Exeunt Montalva, Leonardo, Francis-
co, and the Peasant, into the Hermitage.
Alf. Ah ' stay, Honoria ! Do not leave me
thus;
Look up, my love, nor let affliction's shaft
Bathe in the ruby current of thy heart.
Time will wear out these dark corroding spots,
And wing thy hours with joy J
Hon. Oh! Never! Never.
Time, that with ceaseless labour can unfold
The wondrous page of nature \ that can lay
The loftiest temples level with their base !
Steal the soft graces of the fairest form,
And, by the shadow of his restless wing,
Eclipse the sun of intellectual light !
Can bring no meliorating balm, to heal
The wounded sense, where memory still lives !
Day after day the cankering worm, reflection,.
Feeds on the withering fibres of the heart,
And poisons all its hopes !
Alf. Where woukLst theu seek repose, oh ! tell
me, sweet?
Hon. In death ! where he whose undelighted
days
Have been but tardy scenes of chequered wo,
Assail'd by poverty, despair, and pain !
On the same pillow lays his weary head
Where kings must sleep, when earthly power
shall fade,
And nature whispers, here thy journey ends !
Alf. Think not so deeply, love; oh! look
upon me ;
Thy Alferenzi's fate is link'd with thine.
Hon. That I have loved thee, Heaven can bear
me witness,
Beyond what truth can paint or fancy form l
With thee I could have lived, and been content,
Beneath some mountain hovel's rushy roof;
Have shared the busy task of daily toil,
And smiled and sung the weary hours away !
When gaudy summer deck'd the glowing scene,
1 would have trimm'd our citadel of joy,
Have call'd our humble meal a princely feast,
Our myrtle bower a canopy of state !
Or when stern winter swept the frozen plain,
And tumbling torrents drown'd the valley v s
pride,
I would have crept, half trembling, to tby arms,
And mock'd the howling of the midnight
storm!
But visionary scenes of joy are past ;
Horror and guilt assail where'er I turn,
And all is anguish, frenzy, and despair !
Alf Dress not thy fancy in such weeds of
grief!
Let hope and love enchant thee to repose.
Hon. Can love or hope restore a parent lost ?
Ah ! little dost thou know the tender claims
That bind in feathery spells each vagrant
thought.
Love should be gentle as the twilight breeze,
And pure as early morn's ambrosial tears,.
Spangling the lily on the mountain's side.
I cannot wed the murderer of my father !
Alf Oh ! do not call it murder ! He whose
life
Pays the due forfeit to offended Heaven,
Having by outrage blurr'd his country's laws,
Deserves that country's hate ; and only falls.
To benefit her safety.
Hon. Yes ; but when rigour cherish'd by re-
venge,
Treads on the heels of justice, thrusting back
Humanity itself, the trembling scale
Preponderates at will, and makes the deed
Scarce less than legal murder ! Be resign'd,
Appease the wrath of Heaven, and let me rest '
[Exit into the Hermitage'.
Alf. O hope ! inconstant as the summer gales
That kiss the fragrant bosom of the rose,
Thou shalt no more beguile me : I awake f
Conviction tells me, in this wondrous mass,
All joy is transient, and the fairest scenes
Fraught with deception ! Earth, air, seas ; e'en
man
Deceives, while most he is himself deceived,
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THE SICILIAN LOVER.
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Gloaring with smiles the hypocrite he hates !
The flowery path we tread is sprinkled o'er
With poisonous weeds, and dews that threaten
death.
The skilful pilot ploughs his glittering way,
Nor fears the coming danger, till the deep,
Blackening and foaming, now a yawning gulf,
And now a liquid mountain, swells with rage,
And the gay gallant bark— is seen no more !
The eagle grandly soars to greet the sun ;
Sweeps the bland concave with his lordly wing,
And revels in the plenitude of day!
Soon, on the viewless pinions of the storm,
The rolling clouds obscure the beamy plains,
Th' imprison'd lightnings break their sulphur
bonds,
And 'midst the blaze th' exulting tyrant dies !
Oh! blissful termination of all ills!
Ambrosial drop that lingers in the dregs
Of Fate's embitter' d cup ! oblivious death !
Would I could taste thee, and forget my woes !
But coward misery clings to airy hope,
Grasping from hour to hour a feeble chain,
Which breaks at last, and hurls him to despair !
[Exit.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—T?ie Front of an old Monastery;
with a View oftlie Apennines at Sun-set.
Enter Honoria.
Hon. Here, in this awful, this monastic gloom,
I trust my weary soul will find repose !
As late I stood upon the cavern' d cliff,
Listening the cataract's desolating roar,
I mark'd the spires of this lone habitation
Red with the lustre of the sinking sun !
The solemn silence that surrounds these walls
Well suite the shrine of holy meditation,
And feasts the mind with luxury of thought.
This is the goal where, faint with life's dull toil,
The feeble wo- worn traveller stops, and smiles
To know the busy hour of grief is past !
For, after all, what is this feverous state?
A transient day of sun-shine and of storms ;
A path, hestrew'd with thorns and roseate
wreaths;
We journey on with hope, or lag with fear,
Still, minute after minute, cheating time,
Till, at the close, we stumble on the grave.
[Light appears through the painted windows of
ike Chapel.
It is the hour of vespers, which prepares
The mind serene of virgin innocence
For slumbers undisturb'd by ruthless care ;
Oh, apathy ! thou kindly numbing power !
Thou opiate ! rivalling the Theban drug,
Lulling the nimble passions of the soul,
And binding fast in sweet oblivious spells
The wild rebellious fancy, here thou dwell'st.
But I shall know thee not ; my weary life
Unfading memory presents before me,
Dark as the clouds that shroud the coming storm.
When will the day-star rise, that shall proclaim
My morn eternal in the realms of bliss.
[The gate opens. Constantly comes forward.
Con. I heard the voice of misery complaining
While at the holy altar of our saint ;
And Heaven forbid the temple of religion
Should e r er be shut against the child of wo !
Hon. Alas ! I ask but little, reverend mother.
Con. Make your request ; I only wait your will
Hon. A lonely speck of consecrated earth!
A narrow pallet in the silent grave !
Con. Have you no kindred to relieve your cares ?
Hon. I had a father when the sun did rise.
Con. And does he let thee wander thus forlorn !
Where is he, gentle stranger?
Hon. He's in Heaven !
Is he in Heaven?— Yes, yes ; I hope he is!
He was a very stern and rash old man ;
But still he was my father. He is gone I
Cold drops of blood freeze on his silver hail's.
Like the small flowers that peep through Alpine
snow !
, Con. Holy Saint Peter ! Washemurder'd,lady?
Hon. [Confused.] I fear he was: most sure I
am he died !
His cheek was pale, and petrified, and cold !— .
But I entreat you let us change the matter,
For 'tis a wounding subject ; and, alas !
I own I'm strangely wild when I do think on't !
Con. Oh ! my heart feels thy sorrows in its own ;
Like thee, sweet maid, in youth's exulting bloom,
I found within these solitary walls
A blest asylum from oppressive wo !
My noble kindred long have mourn M me lost ;
For since this awful sanctuary I sought
No tidings have I sent to tell my fate.
Hon. Indeed ! I pray you, do not count my
youth
Too apt and forward, if with curious speech
I question you, how long in this deep gloom
Your beauty has been shrouded from the world?
Con. Just twenty summers, half my days of
wo,
Here have I pass'd sequester'd and unknown.
So long has sufferance borne affliction's thorn,
Deep rankling in the breast of wedded love.
Hon. Of wedded love ! art thou then mar-
ried? Speak!
Con. Oh ! would I were not ! But th' omni-
scient power,
I trust, in pity, will,, with tenfold joys,
Requite my child for all her mother's wrongs !
If yet she breathes, Heaven shower down bless-
ings on her,
And guide her through this wilderness of wo !
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MBS. BOBEGfSOiro POEMS.
Oh ! could I once behold her ere I die,
Could I but clasp her in my fond embrace,
I would forgive her father's cruel scorn
And bless the name of Valmont.
Hon. Oh! 'tis she!
I am thy child ! thy loved, thy lost Honoria !
The hapless offspring of the murder' d Valmont.
Con. Support me, Heaven ! [Faints.
Hon, [Supjiorting her.'] What has my rash-
ness done?
Oh ! do not leave me, angel ! mother ! Speak !
Honoria calls thee ! let not death's fell grasp
Tear the fond parent from her long lost child !
[Constantia revives.
She lives! she breathes! Oh! cherish in thy
heart
The only comfort of thy widow'd days :
[They embrace.
We will, when fainting hope denies to cheer us,
Mingle our tears, and smile at ruthless fate,
In all the proudest luxury of wo !
By day I'll strew thy lonely path with flowers,
And all the live-long night thy slumbers watch,
And chant my orisons for blessings on thee !
Con. Alas! my child! such pious hopes are
vain;
Here must I stay for ever ! Thou art born
For gaudier scenes of splendour and delight !
Hon. Not for the globe's vast treasures would
I leave thee !
Thou shalt return to Valmont ; to thy home ;
The noble Leonardo's close of life
Will bloom a second spring of youth and joy,
Blest in the converse of a saint like thee !
Con. That cannot be ; nor must thou here be
known.
My vows for ever bind me to this goal,
Where, till my last funereal peal shall sound,
My vesper prayers, my early matin songs,
Must still confirm my solemn league with
Heaven.
Thou art o'erwhelm'd with persecuting wo;
Come, let me lead thee to the shrine of peace.
Hon. Oh! best of angels! Here will I re-
This venerable pile shall be our tomb, [main ;
Where we will rest together !
Moss-grown shrines, [Approaching the gate.
Where persecution shrinks from pity's gaze,
And penitence prepares the soul for heaven,
Oh! welcome to my dreary feverish soul '
[Exeunt into the Monastery.
SCENE II. A thick Wood. Night. Tlte Con-
vent's painted windows seen at a distance.
Enter Alferenzi, meeting an old Feasant.
Alf. Well! hast thou found her? Every
tangled dell,
Each thorny labyrinth, and lonely glade,
In vain I've search'd and traversed o'er and o'er !
I will not lose her so ! What, like a coward,
Yield up my hopes, and be the passive fool
That fortune makes her plaything ? All is still!
The moping bat has wheel'd his circling flight,
And hies him weary to his haunted home !
No wandering insect winds his little horn
To bid the drowsy traveller beware,
While perilous oblivion grasps the scene !
Oh ! if I find her not, the gathering mists,
That hasten round us on unwholesome wings,
Will chill her gentle bosom-
Pea. Heaven forefend ! [Lightning.
'Twill be a stormy hour. Oh ! gracious Sir !
In truth my heart is sorely wrung with pity ;
For countless are the dangers that beset
The midnight wanderer in these lonely haunts ;
Nor are the famish'd wolves that roam for prey
More to be dreaded than the lawless swords
Of merciless banditti !
Alf. I fear them not. [Thunder and lightning.
Horrors on horrors crowd so thick upon me,
That pall'd imagination, sick'ning, spurns
The sanity of reason ! man can but bear
A certain portion of calamity ;
For when the pressure heap'd upon the brain
O'erwhelms the active faculties of thought,
The pang acute subsides, and leaves the mind
A chaos wild of gorgeous desolation !
Pea. I hear the feet of passengers ; their steps
Give hollow signal on the sun-burnt ground.
Alf. Here, take this good stiletto, honest carle,
And guard thy breast, if any ill should threaten.
Enter two Robbers.
1st Bob. My poniard is prepared with mortal
poison,
And he that feels it dies. [Lightning.
[Alferenzi, perceiving the Robbers by the
lightning.
Cowards ! assassins !
[The Robbers assail Alferenzi and the Fea-
sant. One is disarmed by Alferenzi ; the
other, after piercing his side, escapes.
Alf. Ruffian ! thou know'st thy life is in nay
power;
Now tell me, if in this sequester'd gloom
A beauteous lady met thee ? quickly speak,
Or thou shalt perish !
2d. Rob. Such a one I met,
And saw.her towards the convent bend her way ;
Yon light will guide you thither ; she is safe.
I could not harm the maid, she look'd so lovely !
Alf. Oh! Caitiff! if thouhadst, thy barbarous
soul
Should in the lowest hell have howl'd for mercy .'
One act of virtue cancels all thy crimes ;
So take thy life ; repent, for I forgive thee.
[Exit Robber.
How much more merciful this villain seems,
Who on the instant gives the mortal wound*
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TBS SICIUAW XOVER.
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Than he who by oppression wrings the heart, ,
And makes the wretch spin a long thread of life.
Steep* d in perpetual tears ! The storm is past ;
Thou know'st this convent! let us hasten
thither.
Tea. Good noble youth, you faint ; your voice
doth faulter.
Alf. "lis but a trifle; 'twas the coward's
sword [way ;
That slightly pierced my side. Now lead the
If I behold her angel face once more,
Not all the demons of despair shall part us.
[Exeunt,
SCENE Ill—The Chapel of the Convent.
An altar, fyc. The corpse of Honoria on a bier
in the middle of the aisle, covered with a white
transparent pall, edged with black velvet. As the
curtain rises slowly, the nuns, arranged round
the chapel, sing a solemn dirge, beginning low,
and rising to full chorus. That done, the first
nun comes forward, and the other nuns arrange
themselves in a semicircle that hides the bier.
1st. Nun. Thus have we offer'd up our fer-
vent prayers
For the meek spirit of this beauteous maid.
Her mien bespoke her noble ; and her breast
Seem'd the rich casket which contained a jewel
Glowing with native and resplendent light !
Ere from her fading lip the quivering breath
Fled its fair mansion, to my care she gave
This costly picture : " Take it, pious sister,
Take it," she cried, " and keep with holy awe
The once-loved image of my Alferenzi !"
That done, she knelt, and raised her eyes to
Heaven—
Her piercing eyes — dark as her adverse fortune !
Breathed a short prayer, and, like a spotless
flower,
Bow'd by the plltloss and pelting storm,
Sunk to the earth, and died !
[A loud knocking at the Convent gate,
Who knocks so loud ?
[Alferenzi rushes into the Chapelfrantici pale,
and exhausted, followed by the old Peasant.
Alf. Oh ! pious sisters, frown not on my rash-
ness;
I am a man the most accursed and wretched !
Driven by the deadly storm of rending passions
To this my last asylum ! Have ye seen,
Since evening's star peer'd in the golden west,
A drooping angel, agonized with grief?
More sweet than infant innocence, more pure
Than sainted spirits journeying to the sky?
[ The Nun turns from him.
Speak ; and, if pity dwells within your breast,
Do rot behold me perith !
Non [Slwwing the picture.'] Know'st thou
thi«?
Alf. Oh ! 1 have found her, for exulting bliss
Springs to my heart, and triumphs o'er despair!
This is the proud meridian of my days,
And my last glowing hour shall set in joy !
Now, call her forth ; tell her 'tis Alferenzi ;
She will, in pity, answer to the summons.
[The nuns draw back on each side, discovering
the bier ; one of them throws tlie pall off the
face of Honoria.
Alf. [Wildly.] Hah ! Who has done this deed?
Is that her wedding suit ? Itow pale she looks !
Soft; do not wake her ; she is sick with sorrow;
The priest is waiting, and the perfumed bands
Are gaily strew'd about the holy shrine ;
I mark'd the spangling drops that hung upon
them;
Some said that they were dying lover's tears ;
Were they not right? Soft, soft; where am I?
My senses much deceive me, or that corse,
So beautiful in death, is Valmont's daughter !
Enter Constantly.
Con. Where is the wretch whose bold and
impious rage
Has dared profane the sacred rites of wo ?
Alf. I came to seek the gem of this world's
wonders !
But she, too precious for this hated earth,
Now beams a constellation in that Heaven
Where I shall never see her I Oh ! I loved her,
Better, far better, than I loved my soul,
For in her cause I gave it to perdition !
Con. Ill-fated man ! See in this faded form
The wife of haughty Valmont ; twenty years
Have pass'd, in silent solitary grief,
Since I beheld my persecuted child.
Oh ! my long-lost, my beautiful Honoria !
My earliest comfort, and my last fond hope !
I did not think to close thy eyes in death,
Or bathe thy ashes with a mother's tears !
* [Kneels by tlie corpse of Honoria.
Alf. Is there on earth a wretch so cursed as I ?
What is my crime, ye ministers of hell,
That persecution, with a scorpion scourge,
Should drive me to the precipice of fate ?
E'en there, the fiend will on the margin greet
me,
And, as I gaze upon the gulph below,
Where mad revenge stands 'midst the foaming
surge,
And smiling feeds upon the hearts of men,
Will snatch me back to linger in despair !
Is there no yawning grave in the green ocean,
No deadly venom in the teeming earth,
No lightning treasured in the stagnant air,
To end my weary pilgrimage of pain?
Peas. Tempt not the rage of Heaven with hn-
pious breath.
Alf. [Aflyroaching the bier.] Yet let me look
upon her : 'Twill not be !
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88 MRS.
A burning torrent rushes through each nerve,
And more than frenzy feeds upon my brain !
The villain '8 sword was steep'd m mortal poi-
son;
Its course, though slow, each antidote defies :
Now, now it freezes, and its icy thrill
Checks the faint current of my withering heart.
I thank thee, Caitiff— thou indeed wert kind !
1st Nun. Restore him, Heaven !
Alf. The fiends surround my soul ! They are
deceived ; [borne
My heart-strings will not break, for they have
The miseries of love! Away! away! [Falls.
Let the same grave conceal our mouldering ashes ;
And if the pilgrim, penitent and poor,
Should drop a tear to consecrate the sod,
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
I ask no other requiem. Death is kind ;
He flings his icy mantle o'er my sense.
And shuts the scene of horror ! Oh ! farewell !
[Dies.
1st Nun. Farewell, sad victims of ambition's
power !—
Now let us raise to heaven our holy song,
For the freed souls of these ill-fated lovers !
While Nature shrinks to contemplate the scene,
And stern-eyed Justice drops a pilent tear,
The angel Pity, bending from the sky,
Shall draw the veil that hides their woes for
ever!
[ Tliey sing the dirge as tlte curtain falls, Cok-
stamtia still kneeling by the bier.
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POEMS.
6AVAGE OF AVETRON.
'Twas in the mazes of a wood,
The lonely wood of Aveyron,
J heard a melancholy tone :—
It seem'd to freeze my blood !
A torrent near was flowing fast,
And hollow was the midnight blast
As o'er the leafless woods it past,
While terror-fraught I stood !
! mazy woods of Aveyron !
O ! wilds of dreary solitude !
Amid thy thorny alleys rude
1 thought myself alone !
I thought no living thing could be
So weary of the world as me,—
While on my winding path the pale moon
shone.
Sometimes the tone was loud and sad,
And sometimes dulcet, faint, and slow ;
And then a tone of frantic wo :
It almost made me mad.
The burthen was " Alone ! alone !*'
And then the heart did feebly groan ;—
Then suddenly a cheerful tone
Proclaimed a spirit glad !
O ! mazy woods of Aveyron !
O! wilds of dreary solitude !
Amid your thorny alleys rude
I wish'd myself— a traveileralone,
" Alone !" I heard the wild bay say,~
And swift he climb'd a blasted oak ;
And there, while morning's herald woke,
He watch'd the opening day.
Yet dark and sunken was his eye,
Like a lorn maniac's, wild and shy,
And scowling like a winter sky,
Without one beaming ray !
Then, mazy woods of Aveyron !
Then, wilds of dreary solitude !
Amid thy thorny alleys rude
I sigh'd to be— a traveller aloue.
" Alone, alone !** i heard Urn shrfck,
'Twas like the shriek of uymg man !
And then to mutter he began, —
But, O ! he could not speak !
I saw him point to heaven, and sigh,
The big drop trembled in his eye ;
And slowly from the yellow sky,
I saw the pale morn break.
I saw the woods of Aveyron,
Their wilds of dreary solitude t
I mark'd their thorny alleys rude.
And wish'd to be— a traveller alone*
His hair was long and black, and he
From infancy alone had been :
For since his fifth year he had seen,
None mark'd his destiny \
No mortal ear had heard his groan,
For him no beam of hope had shone :
While sad he sigh'd—** alone, alone 4 ."
Beneath the blasted tree.
And then, O ! woods of Aveyron,
O ! wilds of dreary solitude,
Amid your thorny alleys rude
I thought myself a traveller— alone.
And now upon the blasted tree
He carved three notches, broad and long,
And all the while he sang a song—
Of nature's melody \
And though of words he nothing lcnew,
And though his dulcet tones were few,
Across the yielding bark he drew,
Deep sighing, notches three.
O ! mazy woods of Aveyron,
O ! wilds of dreary solitude,
Amid your thorny alleys rude
Upon this blasted oak no sun beam shone !
And now he pointed one, two, three ;
Again he shriek'd with wild dismay ;
And now he paced the thorny way,
Quitting the blasted tree.
It was a dark December morn,
The dew was frozen on the thorn :
But to a wretch so sad, so lorn,
AD days alike would be !
M
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Yet, mazy woods of Aveyron,
Yet, wilds of dreary solitude,
Amid your frosty alleys rude
I wish'd to be— a traveller alone.
He follow' d me along the wood
To a small grot his hands had made,
Deep in a black rock's sullen shade,
Beside a tumbling flood.
Upon the earth I saw him spread
Of wither'd leaves a narrow bed,
Yellow as gold, and streak'd with red,
They look'd like streaks of blood !
Pull'd from the woods of Aveyron,
And scatter'd o'er the solitude
By midnight whirlwinds strong and rude,
To pillow the scorch'd brain that throbb'd
alone.
Wild berries were his winter food,
With them his sallow lip was dyed ;
On chesnuts wild he fed beside,
Steep'd in the foamy flood.
Chequer'd with scars his breast was seen,
Wounds streaming fresh with anguish keen,
And marks where other wounds had been
Torn by the brambles rude.
Such was the boy of Aveyron,
The tenant of that solitude,
Where still, by misery unsubdued,
He wander'd nine long winters, all alone.
Before the step of his rude throne,
The squirrel sported, tame and gay ;
The dormouse slept its life away,
Nor heard his midnight groan.
About his form a garb he wore,
Ragged it was, and mark'd with gore,
And yet, where'er 'twas folded o'er,
Full many a spangle shone !
Like little stars, O ! Aveyron,
They gleam'd amid thy solitude ;
Or like, along thy alleys rude,
The summer dew-drops sparkling in the
sun.
It once had been a lady's vest,
White as the whitest mountain's snow,
Till ruffian hands had taught to flow
The fountain of her breast !
Remembrance bade the wild boy trace
Her beauteous form, her angel face,
Her eye that beam'd with heavenly grace,
Her fainting voice that blest,—
When in the woods of Aveyron,
Deep in their deepest solitude,
Three barbarous ruffians shed her blood,
And mock'd, with cruel taunts, her dying
groan.
Remembrance traced the summer bright,
When all the trees were fresh and green,
When lost, the alleys long between,
The lady pass'd the night:
She pass'd the night, bewilder'd wild,
She pass'd it with her fearless child,
Who raised his little arms, and smiled
To see the morning light.
While in the woods of Aveyron,
Beneath the broad oak's canopy,
She mark'd aghast the ruffians three,
Waiting to seize the traveller alone !
Beneath the broad oak's canopy
The lovely lady's bones were laid ;
But since that hour no breeze has play'd
About the blasted tree !
The leaves all wither'd ere the sun
His next day's rapid course had run,
And ere the summer day was done
It winter seem'd to be :
And still, Oh ! woods of Aveyron,
Amid thy dreary solitude
The oak a sapless trunk has stood,
To mark the spot where murder foul was
done.
From her the wild boy learn'd " alone,"
She tried to say, my babe will die /
But angels caught her parting sigh,
The babe her dying tone.
And from that hour the boy has been
Lord of the solitary scene,
Wandering the dreary shades between,
Making his dismal moan !
Till, mazy woods of Aveyron,
Dark wilds of dreary solitude,
Amid your thorny alleys rude
I thought myself alone.
And could a wretch more wretched be,
More wild, or fancy-fraught than he,
Whose melancholy tale would pierce a heart
of stone.
SIR RAYMOND OF THE CASTLE. •
A TALE.
Near Glaris, On a mountain's side,
Beneath a shadowy wood,
With walls of ivy compass' d round,
An ancient castle stood.
• The following little Poems are written after the
model of the Old English Ballads, and are inscribed
to those who admire the simplicity of that kind ot
versification.
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SIR RAYMOND OF THE CASTLE.
91
By all revered, by all adored,
There dwelt a wealthy dame ;
One peerless daughter bless' d her age,
A maid of spotless fame.
While one fair son, a gallant boy,
Whose virtue was his shield,
Led on the dauntless sons of war,
Amidst the crimson'd field :
For o'er the land dissention reign'd
Full many a direful year,
And many a heart's best blood had stain'd
The proud oppressor's spear.
Young Ella's charms had spread her fame
O'er all the country wide ;
And youths of high descent and brave
Had sought her for their bride.
To win her love Sir Raymond came,
Sprung from a princely race ;
Right valiant in each warlike arty
And blest with every grace.
In tournaments renown'd afar,
For manly feats admired ;
His brilliant fame, his bold exploits,
The damsel's bosom fired.
Her blushing cheek, her down-cast eye,
Her secret flame confess'd ;
The gallant Raymond's circling arm
The beauteous Ella press'd.
From her fond mother's doating eyes
The radiant gem he bore ;
The weeping maids and village swains
Beheld her charms no more.
Where the swift billows of the Rhine
Their shining curls disclose,
With many a gilded turret crown'd,
His splendid palace rose.
The festive scene had scarce began,
When near the castle wall
A messenger of warlike mien
On Raymond's name did call.
" Come forth, thou valiant knight," he said,
" Thy prowess quickly show,
With speed prepare thy lance and shield
To meet the dauntless foe :
" The blood of many a noble Swiss
Doth stain the country round,
And many a brave aspiring youth
Lies vanquish'd on the ground.
" The daring chief, whose shining spear
With purple gore is dyed,
Oh ! direful news, prepare to meet
The brother of thy bride."
Enraged, the haughty Raymond cried,
" Base wretch, receive thy doom !
For thy bold errand thou shalt die
Within a dungeon's gloom."
Speechless the mournful Ella stood,
Despair her heart did wound,
When from the echoing tower she heard
The trumpet's dreadful sound.
Her cold wan cheek, her quivering lip,
Bespoke her soul's deep wo,
From her blue eye the crystal drop
In silent grief did flow.
" For shame ! shake off those woman's tears,"
The frowning bridegroom cried,
" And know, Sir Raymond's warlike breast
Disdains a timid bride.
" In vain you weep, ignoble dame ;
Behold yon neighing steed ;
My soldiers wait, my bosom burns
To conquer or to bleed."
Forth went the knight :— the frantic bride
To the high rampart flew ;
With trembling heart she climb'd the wall
Th' embattled plain to view.
On either side, by turns she thought
Proud victory graced the field ;
Till vanquish'd by her brother's sword,
She saw her husband yield.
For refuge to his castle gate
The bleeding warrior flew ;
And from the battlements on high
His daring gauntlet threw.
Three days from dawn to setting sun
The hardy soldiers stood,
Till faint with toil, by famine press'd,
They saw their chief subdued.
" Oh ! haste my page," Sir Raymond said,
" The captive youth set free,
And bid him to the conqueror's feet
This message bear from me.
" Treasures immense of massy gold,
Rich gems and jewels rare,
As ransom will I freely give,
If he our lives will spare.
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93
" If he consents, let garlands green
Thy peaceful brows adorn ;
If hostile yet, beneath our walls,
Thrice sound thy bugle-horn."
Gaily he pass'd the outward gate j
But sadly he return' d;
His bugle-horn he sounded thrice,
No wreath his brows adorn'd.
" Thy gold," he cried, "the conqueror scorns,
He claims thy forfeit life,
Thy precious gems, and jewels rare,
He gives thy beauteous wife.
" Your lands are free, your soldiers too,
And for young Ella's sake,
To prove his truth, the generous chief
This solemn vow did make.
" That whatsoe'er she holds most dear,
At morrow's dawn of day,
Her pages to some distant place
May safely bear away."
At dawn of light fair Ella came,
Fresh as the rose of May;
Sir Raymond in a chest of gold
Her pages bore away !
She pass'd the gate with throbbing heart,
She pass'd the ranks among ;
The praises of her peerless charms
Fell fast from every tongue.
" Halt, halt !** they cried, " right nobfe dame,
'Tis fit we should behold
Whether thy coffer ought contains
But gems and massy gold."
" O stay me not, ye gallant youths,
For soon it shall appear
This bumish'd coffer doth contain
All that I hold most dear I
" Take heed, my brother, ah, take heed*
Nor break thy sacred word ;
Nor let thy kinsman's Mood degrade
The glories of thy sword !**
The hero smiled— fair Ella's cheek
Glow'd with vermilion dye;
Fear chilTd her heart, the starting tear
Stood trembling m her eye.
Subdued, abashed, her brother flew
And snatch'd her to his breast,
Then with an angel's pitying voice,
The vanquished chief address'd i
hobum sours
" Come forth, Sir Raymond, valiant knight,
Behold thy peerless wife ;
Receive thy sword, and from her band
Accept thy forfeit life.
" Here shall the bloody contest end.
Let peace o'erspread the land ;
More homage than the conqueror's sword
Can beauty's tears command."
DONALD AND MARY.
On Scotia's hills a gentle maid,
The fairest of the rustic throng,
When round the glittering moon-beams play'd,
Oft pour'd her sad and plaintive song,
Her eye was dimm'd with sorrow's tears,
Which from their azure fountain rolTd ;
Her throbbing heart was fraught with fears ;
Pale was her cheek, and deadly cold f
By friends forgot, by foes oppress'd,
By Fortune's chilling frown subdued,
Fierce Frenzy hover'd o'er her breast,
And wither'd Grief her steps pursued :
But, ah, more fatal e'en than those ;
The worst of pangs 'twas hers to share ;
While Envy, smiling, mock'd her woes—
For Envy feeds on human care.
A gallant youth, of Scottish birth,
Had woo'd and won the gentle maid ;
Not all the treasured gems of earth
Like Donald's music could persuade;
Not all that India's shores supply,
Or all the wealth of Britain's isle,
Could charm like Donald's speaking eye,
Or win the soul like Donald's smile.
But Glory, lifting high her crest,
His glowing fancy lured to arms ;
Fame filled his young and panting breasts-
He left his Mary's world of charms.
Ill-fated Donald fought and bled !
The green sod veil'd his manly form,
While round his dark and clay-cold bed
Bleak blew the wild and wintry storm.
No marble trophies deck'd the spot,
To ask the pensive traveller's sigh ;
No verse to tell his hapless lot,
Or bid the valiant learn to die.
But there the snow-drop, meek and pale,
With morning's tears would oft o'erflow;
And there the bird of sorrow's tale
Repeated Mary's tender wo.
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UiWHlaN AND QWTNETa
"Ah! who has Men my gallant boy,
In martial trim, and rich array ?
Ah ! who has heard my only joy
Sing to yon moon his roundelay ?
His laurel shines in yonder sky,
The brightest of the starry train ;
Though in the grave his beauties lie,
All crimson'd o'er with many a stain.
" Ah ! hare you seen my Donald brave,
Enthroned on yonder passing cloud ?
Or gliding o'er yon whitening wave,
Or chaunting, 'midst the tempest loud ?
Now, o'er yon hill the day-star peeps,
The merry birds awake to glee ;
Low in the grave my Donald sleeps,
Nor hears their song-, nor thinks of me !
" Give me his sword, of mickle fame,
And give me too, his bonnet gay ;
On the green-turf to carve his name,
And decorate his hallow'd clay.
Ye costly graves, where monarchs lie,
With crowns and sceptres, won by birth ;
Vainly your glittering baubles vie
With Donald's sword, and Donald's worth !"
By weeping Evening's fading light,
Far o'er the thistled heath she stray'd,
Till, lost amidst the frowns of night,
The cold blast chill'd the beauteous maid :
Along the dreary, desert gloom,
Her mournful song was heard to glide ;
" With joy," she said, " I meet my doom !"
Then sigh'd her Donald's name— and died !
93
LLWHEN AND GWYNETH.*
WRITTEN IK THE TEAR 1782.
" When will my troubled soul have rest ?**
The blue-eyed Llwhen cried ;
As through the murky shade of night
With frantic step she hied.
" When shall those eyes my Gwyneth's face,
My Gwyneth's form survey ?
When shall those longing eyes again
Behold the dawn of day ?
" Cold are the dews that wet my cheek,
The night-mist damps the ground ;
• From Mr. John Williams's prose translation of
a lately discovered Welsh Poem, preserved in the
Collection of Arthur Price, Esq. It is supposed to
hare been written by Tateisin, in Ben Batridd, A.
D.534*
Appalling echoes strike mine ear,
And spectres gleam around.
" The vivid lightning's transient rays
Around my temples play ;
'Tis all the light my fate affords
To mark my thorny way.
" From the black mountain's awful height,
Where Llathryth's turrets rise,
The dark owl screams a direful song,
And wa -us me as she flies.
" The chilling blast, the whistling winds,
The mouldering ramparts shake ;
The hungry tenants of the wood
Their cavern'd haunts forsake*
" My trembling limbs, unused to stray
Beyond a father's door,
Full many a mile have journey d forth,
Each footstep mark'd with gore.
" No costly sandals deck my feet,
By thorns and briars torn ;
The cold rain chills my rosy cheek,
Whose freshness shamed the morn.
" Slow steals the life-stream at my heart,
Dark clouds o'ershade my eyes ;
Foreboding sorrow tells my soul
My captive hero dies.
" Yfet if one gentle ray of hope
Can sooth the soul to rest,
Oh ! may it pierce yon flinty tower,
And warm my Gwyneth's breast*
" And if soft pity's tearful eye
A tyrant's heart can move,
Ill-fated Llwhen yet may live
To clasp her vanquished love.
'< And though stern war with bonds of steel
His graceful form shall bind,
No earthly spell has power to hold
The freedom of his mind.
" And though his warm and gallant heart
Now yields to fate's decree,
Its feelings spurn the base constraint,
And fly to love and me !
" Then, Ban worth,* lion of the field !
O, hear a maiden plead ;
Sheath not thy sword in Gwyneth's breast,
Or too, let Llwhen bleed I
• Banworth is supposed to have been the lord of
the Bright Castle*
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
" To valiant feats of arms renown'd
Shall earthly praise be given ;
But deeds of mercy, mighty chief,
Are register'd in Heaven !
" The minstrels' song of praise shall fill
The palace of thy foe ;
While down the joyful Llwhen's cheek
The grateful tear shall flow.
" And sure the tear that Virtue sheds
Some rapture can impart ;
What gem can deck a victor's throne
Like incense from the heart?"
Now the grey morning's silvery light,
Dawn'd in the eastern skies,
When at the lofty lattice grate
Her lover's form she spies.
" He lives !" she cried, " My Gwyneth lives!
Youth of the crimson shield !
The graceful hero of my heart,
The glory of the field !
" Come down, my soul's delight!" she said,
" Thy blue-eyed LI when see !
Yrganvy's daughter, thy true love,
Who only breathes for thee :
" Then haste thee from thy prison house,
Ere yet the foe doth rise !
Oh ! haste ere yet the morning sun
Doth flame along the skies.
" Ah, speak ! my heart is chill'd with fear,
My faultering voice doth fail ;
Why are thy darling eyes so dim,
Thy cheeks so deathly pale ?"
"lam thy Gwyneth's ghost, sweet maid,
Avoid the maddening sight ;
Those eyes that doated on thy charms
Are closed in endless night.
" This loyal heart, which beat for thee,
Is rent with many a wound ;
Cleft is my shield, my glittering spear
Lies broke on Monia's ground.
" My bones the eagle hath convey'd
To feed her ravenous brood ;
The black-brow'd Banworth's savage hand
Hath spilt my purple blood.
" Then hie thee hence, ill-fated maid,
Ere greater woes betide,
To where Teivi's * silver streams
Along the valleys glide.
* At the Waters of Teivi the hero fell.
" There, where the modest primrose blooms,
Pale as thy lover's shade,
My mangled relics shalt thou find
Upon the green turf laid.
" Then hie thee hence, with holy hands
Build up a sacred shrine,
And oh ! chaste maid, thy faith to prove,
Unite thy dust with mine !"
Ah !. have you seen a mother's joy
In cherub sweetness dress'd,
Seized by the numbing hand of death,
Expiring at her breast?
Or the fond maid, whom morrow's dawn
Had hail'd a wedded fair,
Doom'd to behold her lover's corse
Scorch' d by the lightning's glare ?
So stood the hopeless, frantic maid,
Yrganvy's graceful child,
Cold was her cheek, her dove-like eyes
Fix'd in amazement wild !
" This panting heart," at length she cried,
" A sharper pang doth feel
Than thine, brave youth, when rent in twain
By Banworth's poison'd steel.
" No more these sad and weeping eyes
My father's house shall see ;
To airy halls, from Mona's hill,
I haste to follow thee.
" Beside thy tomb the chieftain's tear
Shall join the foamy surge ;
And oft upon the desert heath
The Druid chaunt thy dirge.
" The weary traveller, faint and sad,
Shall stay his steps awhile ;
The memory of his own hard fate
Thy story shall beguile.
" There, wet with many a holy tear,
The sweetest buds shall blow,
There Llwhen's ghost shall mark the shrine,
A monument of wo !"
Thrice did he ope the lattice grate,
And thrice he bade adieu ;
When, lo ! to join the parting shade,
The maiden's spirit flew !
A N S E L M O,
THE HEKMIT OP THE ALPS.
Whbre, mingling with Helvetia's skies,
The snow-clad mountains glittering rise ;
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Far from the din of busy life,
From specious fraud, and envious strife ;
From trivial joys, and empty show,
And all the taunting tribes of wo ;
Deep in a forest's silent shade,
For holy meditation made,
Anselmo lived ! — his humble shed
Rear'd, 'midst the gloom, its rushy head
Full many a flower, of loveliest hue,
Around his mossy threshold grew :
His little vineyard food supply'd,
His healthful cup the rippling tide ;
The wood his tranquil bower of noon,
His midnight lamp the silvery moon ;
His simple garb and modest mien,
The emblems of the soul within.
Lost to the world, by all forgot,
No envious fiend assail'd his cot ;
His matin prayer, his evening song,
Proclaim'd a conscience void of wrong ;
While, with a pure and feeling mind,
He wept the woes of human kind.
For when the young Anselmo try'd
The paths of luxury and pride,
He found in every gaudy scene
Light vanity, with wanton mien,
And base Self-interest, grovelling guest,
And Envy, with deep- wounded breast,
And Power that spurn'd the hapless race,
And aplendour gilding o'er disgrace ;
And bold Oppression's ponderous chain,
To load the groaning sons of pain !
Anselmo's heart, with virtue stored,
Disgusted every path explored ;
For still in each a thorn he found,
Whose hidden point was sure to wound :
Friends murdering with a specious smile,
And kindred bosoms fraught with guile ;
And reptiles who, in baseness bold,
Unblushing barter' d love for gold !
Blest might have been his lot obscure !
What cannot patient worth endure ?
But, ah! within his feeling heart,
Long-cherish'd Passion fix'd its dart,
And, braving Reason's powerful aid,
Had bid his cheek's bright crimson fade.
With every mental joy at strife,
Its poisons dash'd the sweets of life ;
Brought Discontent, and all her train,
To wring his soul with ceaseless pain,
Each morn with clouds to cross his way,
To haunt his path at sinking day ;
And when his midnight couch he press'd,
With weedy mischiefs sting his breast.
Despairing, lost, perplex' d to find
No balm to heal his tortured mind
ANSEUMEO.
At early dawn, at twilight's close,
Still wounding thought deny'd repose.
In vain, to quit the maid adored,
Anselmo solitude explored :
For e'en amidst the glooms around
Her peerless beauty still he found.
In every rose her blushing cheek
Seem'd with resistless grace to speak ;
The lily fair, in perfumes drest,
Pourtray'd her spotless fragrant breast ;
The stream, reflecting back the sky,
Brought to his mind her azure eye ;
The sun, in amber lustre roll'd,
Glow'd like her locks of silky gold ;
The lonely turtle's plaintive moan
Recall'd her song's celestial tone ;
And every dew-drop, trembling near,
Gave to his soul-Jier parting tear !
95
Oh ! fatal hour, when friends severe
Beheld unmoved that parting tear,
When, vanquished by the sordid crew,
Anselmo bade the world adieu ;
When, bow'd to rigid duty's sway,
He saw his fairest hopes decay,
His short-lived visions of delight
O'erwhelm'd, and lost in endless night.
Once more in search of peace to roam,
Anselmo left his hermit's home :
For three long years had bid him prove
That absence cannot conquer love ;
That in the breast where passion burns,
Each nerve officious reason spurns ;
Though in the gulph of misery cast,
It loves to ponder on the past ;
While Memory, with a keener sense,
Still paints the eye's soft eloquence,
Still marks the blush of feeling meek,
Still whispers more than words can speak,
Still bids tumultuous throbbings prove
That language was not made for love !
Still Fancy cheats the wounded breast,
With momentary raptures blest ;
And, e'en when Hope denies relief,
Reflection feeds the source of grief.
" Perish the thought !" Anselmo cried^
" That hearts, by mutual vows ally'd,
Should passive crouch to tyrant power,
And darkening youth's effulgent hour,
Sink in oblivion's whelming tide,
The victims of insatiate pride !
" Perish the thought, that genuine fires
Should fading yield to low desires ;
That those who cannot, dare not, prove
The sweet vicissitudes of love,
Should by the spells of paltry gold
The child of worth in thraldom hold,
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96 MRS.
And, dead'ning all die thrills of soul,
Bend nature to the stern control.
" Shall man o'er man a tyrant prove,
And Fortune guide the shafts of Love?
Shall those, by Heaven's own influence join'd.
By feeling, sympathy, and mind,
The sacred voice of truth deny,
And mock the mandate of the sky ?
Shall the proud breast, with virtue stored,
Bow like the vassal to his lord,
And, prodigal of life's short day,
In base submission fade away ?
Then sink unpitied to the grave,
A wretch abhorr'd !— a willing slave !"
Roused from his dream, the hermit sought
The scene once more, with misery fraught ;
Clad in a pilgrim's mean array,
From morn's approach till parting day
. The toilsome thorny path he trod,
No guide but Hope,— no friend but God !
And when the shades of night o'ersprcad
The misty mountain's breezy head.
Exhausted, on earth's humid breast,
He kiss'd his cross, and sunk to rest.
At length, his weary weeping eyes
With joy beheld the day-star rise :
For morning gave his raptured sight
The long-lost scene of fond delight,
Where gentle Rosa, peerless maid !
Once like a sun illumed the shade ;
Or, as the jewel gilds the mine,
Bade dazzling lustre round her shine.
How throbb'd Anselmo's heart, when near,
The well-known vespers hail'd his ear !
How did he watch declining day,
How pant to greet its parting ray !
For welcome to the lover's sight
Appear the murky shades of night ;
And sacred every haunt must prove,
That hides the timid blush of love.
Now Hope inspired his bleeding breast-
Now fear each thrilling joy suppress'd,-*
While to his Rosa's proud abode
Forlorn Anselmo sought the road,
And near her lofty window crept,
When all her sordid kindred slept ;
While the chaste moon, with pitying light,
Stole veil'd across the dome of night,
And every zephyr, wandering near,
Kiss'd from his cheek a sacred tear.
" Come, Rosa fair !" the Hermit said,
" Bright star of beauty, cheer the shade !
Anselmo calls !— ere rising day
Exulting spreads its envious ray j
Beam comfort on my dark despair,
Light of my life, my Rosa fair I"
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Yet all was silent, all was drear,
Anselmo's soul was chill'd with fear !
The sun rush'd forth, his beamy gold
Around the misty mountain roll'd :
The landscape glow'd with colours gay,
New gilded by the eastern ray ;
While every blossom trembling near
Dropp'd from its leaves a crystal tear, .
Andseem'd, by sympathy, to show
That Nature weeps a lover's wo !
Fear bade Anselmo's feet depart,
While anguish wrung his burning heart ;
With devious step he sought the wood.
Where, ivy-crown'd, a convent stood ;
Where many a young and noble maid,
Like a fair floweret doom'd to fade,
In Superstition's mournful gloom,
A weeping angel— graced a tomb !
Anselmo now, with throbbing breast,
Approach'd the shrine of fancied rest :
With trembling touch the latch he raised,
Then, kneeling, cross' d his brow, and praised !
The gate on creaking hinges moved,
And loud his daring hand reproved.
While through the cloister drear he pass'd,
Cold blew the whistling northern blast ;
The turrets tottering o'er his head,
Shook his faint soul with conscious dread ;
Till by the taper's quivering ray
To the long aisle he bent his way,
Where, chaunting o'er a sable bier,
Begem'd with many a holy tear,
The white-robed virgins kneeling paid
Sad tribute to a sister's shade !
Anselmo's garb, and downcast look,
A pilgrim's penitence bespoke !
Though sorrow mark'd his manly face,
His eye retain'd celestial grace.
A welcome guest, he join'd the throng,
The sacred rites, the heavenly song !
Till bending o'er the funeral bed,
The consecrated oil to shed,
He started back in wild amaze,
Death- wounded by the fatal gaze !
For there his darling maid he found,
And, maddening at the sight, fell lifeless to
the ground !
BOSWORTH FIELD.
Gliding o'er the moonlight heath,
Mark the shadowy tribes of Death !
Hark! their airy voices say,
" Haste thee, Mortal ! haste away!
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BOSWORTH
" While our clashing halberts bright |
Glisten by the lamp of night ;
While our hosts, in hostile pride,
O'ei the thistled desert glide ;
" Soon shall turbid clouds absorb
Spectred midnight's paly orb !
Soon shall Horror grasp its ray : —
Wandering Mortal, haste away !
" Chilly blows the northern blast ;
Deadly dews are rising fast ;
Quit, oh ! quit this haunted heath,
Sacred to the tribes of Death !
" Screech-owls warn thee of thy fate,
Fly thee, ere it be too late !
All is sad, and all is drear,
Wherefore, mortal,'Wander here ?"
All is silent !— yon black cloud
Soon the waning moon will shroud :
All is dark !— the moaning wind
Turbid vapours haste to bind.
Now the severing skies again
Cheer with light the spangled plain :
Now low murmurs sadly say,
" Stay thee, gentle wanderer, stay."
What art thou, slow gliding by,
With snowy robe, and glaring eye ?
Quickly fleeting shadow, say
Whither wouldst thou bend thy way?
. Why invito my steps along
To yon pal's and warlike throng?
Wherefora wave thy lily hand,
Beckoning back the ghastly band?
" Stranger, hear my mournful strain,
Ere the day-star gilds the plain ;
Ere the rosy beams of light
Bid me fade from mortal sight !
" This is Bosworth's fatal field,
Plough 'd with many a shatter 'd shield !
This is Bosworth's silent grave
Of chieftains bold, and bowmen brave !
" Here the flower of England's pride,
Wading through a purple tide,
Forced the ranks the tyrant led
O'er the heaps of mighty dead !
" While, amidst a sea of blood,
Norfolk,* Oxford,* Pembroke,* stood;
I
* The Duke or Norfolk, Earl of Oxford, and Earl
of Pembroke. The former was slain at the Battle of
Bom worth.
FIELD. 97
England's bane, and England's boast,
Rush'd to arms,— a dauntless host !
" Yonder valiant Richmond's breast
Op ward to the tyrant press' d !
Yonder, mad with many a wound,
Hellish Richard gnaw'd the ground !
" See his faulchion deep embued
With valiant Brandon's * vital blood ;
See its crimson'd fragments glare
Hideous through the stagnant air !
" Start not, mortal ! — Hear my tale :
See my cheek so deadly pale,
Once the fairest freshest flower,
Placed by Heaven in Leicester's f bower.
" Peerless Bertha was my name,
First in beauty, first in fame !
Gallant Hubert was mjr pride :
Hubert fell, and Bertha died !
" Ermined robe and tissued vest
Never more shall wrap this breast ;
Now my death-bed trappings view,
Pale and gem'd with frozen dew !
" Perfect was my Hubert's mind,
Train'd to arms, by love refined !
Speaking was his hazle eye,
Smooth his cheek, of ruddy dye.
" Raven black his glossy hair,
Shading o'er his forehead fair :
Night's impervious curtains so
Veil the mountain's spotless snow !
" Onward rush'd his palfrey white,
Deck'd with silver bosses bright ;
Bosses, doom'd their rays to shed
O'er my Hubert's funeral bed !
" O'er his golden helmet gay
Gaudy plumage fann'd the day :
Hapless plumes ! ye wave no more,
Hubert's crest is drench'd in gore !
" When the battle's fierce alarms
Lured my hero from my arms,
Who my parting throb can tell ?
Who, but those that love as well ?
" But, when o'er the tented heath
Horror wing'd the lance of Death ;
When my gallant Hubert fell,
None, alas ! my woes can tell.
♦ Sir William Brandon, standard-bearer to the
Earl of Richmond, a gallant knight, slain by the
hand of the tyrant Richard, at the Battle of Bos worth.
f Leicester is the nearest town to Bosworth Field
N
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98
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
" Three short moons beheM me rare
O'er my mangled lover's grave
Countlese moons shall see my ghost
Hovering near yon shadowy host !
" Nightly will I glide along
Near the vast terrific throng !
Nightly shall my mournful strain
Echo o'er this haunted plain !
" For, perchance, amidst the throng
Hubert's shade shall catch the song ;
Though a strain of rending wo,
Hubert Bertha's strain will know !
" Then, my love again may join
Tender sighs and plaints to mine ;
Or to some more peaceful shore
We may glide, to part no more !
•• See, the yellow dawn appears !
Gentle wanderer, check thy tears :
See, my shadow shuns the day !
Haste thee, mortal, haste away !"
THE DOUBLET OF GREY.
Beneath the tall turrets that nod o'er the dell,
A dark forest now blackens the mound ;
Where often, at dawn-light, the deep-sounding
bell
Tolls sadly and solemn a soul-parting knell,
While the ruin re-echoes the sound.
Yet long has the castle been left to decay,
For its ramparts are skirted with thorn ;
And no one by moonlight will venture that way,
Lest they meet the poor maid, in her doublet of
grey,
As she wanders, all pale and forlorn !
" And why should she wander? O tell me I
pray,
And, oh ! why does she wander alone ?"
Beneath the dark ivy, now left to decay,
With no shroud, but a coarse simple doublet of
Lies her bosom as cold as a stone. [grey,
Time was when no form was so fresh or so fair,
Or so comely, when richly array'd : [hair
She was tall, and the jewels that blazed in her
Could no more with her eye's living lustre
compare,
Than a rose with the cheek of the maid.
She loved ! — but the youth, who had vanquish'd
her heart,
Wae the heir of a peasant's hard toil ;
For no treasure had ha : yet, a stranger to art,
He would oft by a look to the damsel impart
What the damsel received with a smile.
Whene'er to the wake or the chase she would
The young Theodore loiter 'd that way ; [go,
Did the sun-beams of summer invitingly glow,
Or across the bleak common the winter winds
blow,
Still he watch'd till the closing of day.
Her parents so wealthy, her kindred so proud,
Heard the story of love with dismay ;
They raved, and they storm'd, by the Virgin
they vow'd,
That, before they would see her so wedded, s
shroud
Should be Madeline's bridal array.
One night, it was winter, all dreary and cold,
And the moon-beams shone paly and clear;
When she open'd her lattice, in hopes to behold
Her Theodore's form, when the turret-bell
toll'd,
And the blood in her heart froze with fear.
Near the green-mantled moat her stern father
she spied,
And a grave he was making with speed ;
The light, which all silver'd the castle's strong
side,
Display'd his wild gestures, while madly ha
cry'd—
" Cursed caitiff! thy bosom shall bleed !"
Distracted, forlorn, from the castle of pride,
She escaped at the next close of day :
Her. soft blushing cheek with dark berries all
dyed, [side,
With a spear on her shoulder, a sword by her
And her form in a doublet of grey.
She traversed the courts, not a vassal was seen,
Through the gate, hung with ivy, she flew :
The sky was unclouded, the air was serene,
The moon shot its rays, the long vistas between,
And her doublet was spangled with dew.
O'er the cold breezy downs to the hamlet shs
hied,
Where the cottage of Theodore stood;
For its low roof of rushes she oft had descried,
When she drank of the brook that foam'd wild
by its side,
While the keen hunters traversed the wood.
The sky on a sudden grew dark, and the wind,
With a deep sullen murmur, rush'd by ;
She wander'd about, but no path could she find,
While horrors on horrors encompass'd her mind
When she found that no shelter was nigh.
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THE FOSTER-CHILI).
99
And now, on the dry withered fern, she could
The hoofs of swift horses rebound ; [hear
She stopp'd and she listen'd, she trembled with
fear, [ear,
When a voice most prophetic and sad met her
And she shudder'd and shrunk at the sound.
" "Us here we will wait," cried the horseman ;
" for see
How the moon with black clouds is o'erspread ;
No but yields a shelter, no forest a tree—
This heath shall young Theodore's bridal-couch
be,
And the cold earth shall pillow his head.
" Hark ! some one approaches :— now stand we
aside,
We shall know him — for see, the moon's clear ;
In a doublet of grey he now waits for his bride,
But, ere dawn-light, the carle shall repent of his
pride,
And his pale mangled body rest here "
•
Again, the moon shrouded in clouds, o'er the
plain
The horsemen were scatter' d far wide ;
The night became stormy, the fast falling rain
JSeat hard on her bosom, which dared not com-
plain,
And the torrent roll'd swift by her side.
Now clashing of swords overwhelm'd her with
dread,
While her ear met the deep groan of death ;
" Yield, yield thee, bold peasant," the murderer
said, [be red,
u This turf with thy heart's dearest blood shall
And thy bones whiten over the heath."
Now shrieking, despairing, she starts from the
ground,
And her spear, with new strength, she lets go :
She aim'd it at random, she felt it rebound
From the sure hand of Fate, which inflicted the
wound,
As it drank the life-blood of her foe.
The morning advanced, o'er the pale chilling
skies
Soon the warm rosy tints circled wide 5
But, oh God ! with what anguish, what terror
she flies, [descries
When her father, all cover'd with wounds, she
With her lover's pale corpse by his side !
Half frantic she fell on her parent's cold breast,
And she bathed her white bosom with gore ;
Then, in anguish the form of young Theodore
press'd— [rest,'
« J will yet be thy bride, in the grave we will
She exclaim'd ; and she suffer'd 00 more.
Now o'er the wild heath when the winter winds
blow,
J And the moon-silver'd fern branches wave,
J Pale Theodore's spectre is seen gliding slow,
As he calls on the damsel in accents of wo,
Till the bell warns him back to his grave*
And while the deep sound echoes over the wood,
Now the villagers shrink with dismay;
For, as legends declare, where the castle once
stood, [blood,
'Mid the ruins, by moonlight, all covered with
Shrieks the maid— in her doublet of grey !
THE FOSTER-CHILD.
IN IMITATION OF SFXNSVft.
CANTO 1.
'Mib Cambria's hills a lowly cottage stood;
Circled with mossy tufts of sombre green ;
A vagrant brook flowM wildly through the
wood,
Flashing in lucid lapse the shades between ;
And, clothed in mist, a distant hut was seen :
A village spire above the copse rose white i
And oft, when summer closed the day se-
rene,
The broad horizon glisten'd golden-bright,
Beskirted here and there with purple-tinted
light.
Close by the river's marge a ruin stands,
Which time for ages taught to moulder
slow;
And there, as legends tell, the Druid bands
To Snowden's summit raised the dirge o.
wo, [flow :
Whene'er the warriors' blood was bade to
And when the yellow dawn, with weeping eye,
Above the ivy'd battlements 'gan glow,
From the black towers their fading ghosts
would cry, [sky*
'Till the wide gates of day flamed in the eastern
And there the minstrel's airy harp would
In soft vibrations musically sad ; [sound,
And there a stream of light would quiver
'round,
While spectres gleam'd, in shroudy vest-
ments clad ; [mad !
And many, hearing their loud shrieks, grew
And still the little cot was cheerful seen ;
And the poor foster-mother, smiling, glad
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100
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
That pride and pomp had ne'er her portion
been, [serene.
But all her nights and days pass'd on in peace
Sprung from a race obscure, she little knew
Hie many snares that lurk in paths of state :
She, mountain-cherish*d with the guileless
few,
Nor fear'd the cunning nor obey'd the great ;
Her bosom tranquil, and her soul elate ;
She from soft slumbers merrily awoke
Ere morn with humid fingers oped her gate ;
And listen'd, cheerful, while the woodman's
stroke ' [oak.
Levell'd the loftiest pine, or cleft the proudest
And happy had the foster-mother been,
But that her wedded mate was old and
poor;
Though as no splendid days the pair had seen,
They envied not the rich their shining store,
The costly banquet, nor the marble floor.
Pleased with her toil, the nurse of lusty
health, [more ;
She found contentment, and she sought no
While time, which conquers e'en the brave by
stealth, [wealth.
Scatter'd 'mid folly's train the miseries of
Full sixty summers had old Owen seen,
And now his hair grew whiter every day ;
And he, who once a sturdy hind had been,
Now found his strength was wasting quick
away,
While creeping Palsy shook his feeble clay ;
And now came Discontent, with pining mien,
And eager Avarice, which, gossips say,
Is age's bitter curse ; and so, I ween, [spleen.
Old Owen found the hag, the nurse of envious
And now he hobbled through the splashy lane,
While the night-breeze his weary hones
would shake ;
And now the mountain's summit to attain
He panted loud, as though his heart would
break,
And sorely did his limbs begin to ache :
And when the snow was drifted, or the rain
Swell'd the small rivulet to foaming rage,
He felt the chilling mist in every vein,
And, like a wounded deer, droop'd languid o'er
the plain.
And sometimes to the ruin he would hie,
And there, upon a mossy fragment, wait,
Watching the red blaze of the evening sky,
Gilding with flaming gold the roofs of state,
The fretted column, and the trophied gate :
And thus he ponder'd on the wrecks of Time,
While o'er his head the bird of gloom would
cry,
And all around the blackening ivy climb,
Shadowing the sacred haunts of solitude sublime.
And then the varying destiny of man
Employ 'd his thoughts till twilight's veil
was spread ;
And much he murmur'd at the ohequer'd plan,
And many a tear, repining sore, he shed ;
And now in mute reflection bow'd his head,
With arms enwoven, and with downcast eyes,
The page of human misery he read,
Where wealth for honesty its thralment tries,
Wnile at Oppression's feet the child of Virtue
dies.
Then Fancy led him to the battle's rage,
Where flush'd ambition rear'd its sanguine
crest, [gage,
Where men with men, like tigers, fierce en-
The brother's sword against the brother's
breast: [bless'd;
And then he raised his eyes to Heaven, and
For blood had never stain'd his trembling
But holy Innocence, by Pity drest, [hand,
Spurning the prid» of insolent command,
Had nerved his shuddering heart to scorn the
, oppressor's brand.
Thus did he ruminate ; while many a tale
Told by the gabbling gossips of the plain,
O'er his lean cheek diffused a deadly pale,
Bidding him seek his cheerful home again .
Now fancy bade him ken the warrior train
. Winding the mazes of the merry dance,
With pages silken-clad, and ladies vain,
And banners thickly pierced with many a
lance,
And palfries milky- white, that champing loud
did prance ;
While airy harps, by sainted Druids smote,
Pour'd the soft cadence from their golden
strings ; [float
And groans of murder'd chieftains seem'd to
O'er Cambria's towering pride, on echo's
wings:
And now the gushing of a thousand springs
Call'd forth the elfin tribes, in dew bedtght ;
And now the vaulted arch with clamours
rings;
And starry eyes, spangling the face of night,
Seem'd through the murky gloom to shed trans-
lucent light.
Now Owen, rising from his moss-clad seat,
Through the lone forest bent his silent
way;
And faint the pulses of his bosom beat,
Till, peering calm and clear, the moony ray
Diffused o'er Snowden's summit miUiio
day ;
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THE FOSTER-CHHiD.
101
And, while the dry leaves whisper'd through
the wood,
He mark'd the casement of his hut display
A long pale stream of light— and swift his blood
Danced in his shrivell'd veins, like youth's re-
turning flood.
But suddenly a voice was heard to moan,
Soft as the sighing of the southern wind ;
And then a milder and a milder tone :—
He started, stopp'd, and trembling look'd
behind. [mind ?
What feeble spells can hold toe human
And now, in tears, before old Owen stood
A beauteous lady ! Of the loftiest kind
So did she seem ; but those of loftiest blood
Live not in noblest deeds, as noblest natures
should.
The moony light fell clear upon her vest,
For whiteness rivalling the stately swan ;
And yet less snowy than her beating breast,
Whose fires the quenching tears fell fast
, upon; [gone:
And mournful was her mien, and wo-be-
Yet her soft eyes might ruffian-rage command,
Though her cold cheek and lip were deadly
wan ;
For on her heart she laid her trembling hand,
And, like a guilty wretch, did faint and feeble
stand.
And now she rush'd the woody brakes among ;
And now again she'd quit the dim retreat,
While suddenly her nerves grew firm and
strong,
For in her arms she bore a baby sweet,
Wrapp'd in a costly robe, with trappings
meet, [fell ;
That glisten'd where the moon's pale lustre
And now she knelt forlorn at Owen's feet,
While with such rending woes her heart 'gan
swell
As only those who feel can ever learn to tell.
Slow from her breast a purse of gold she drew,
(Ah, poison fatal to the soul of man !)
While o'er the world a misty vapour flew ;
For nature shrunk the guilty deed to scan :
The fount in Owen's bosom chilly ran ;
The lady sigh'd — the babe his finger press'd —
The lonely owl its nightly shriek began,
The ring-dove murmur' d in its leafy nest,
While the fell murderer's ghost laugh'd in his
grave unblest.
And now the lady spoke, with faultering
tongue,
" Know'st thou the torrent by the moun-
tain's side ?
There a fantastic crag with wild weeds hung
Frowns o'er the thunders of the foaming
tide; [tried?"
No mortal sounding yet the gulph has
Now Owen shudder'd, for his heart grew cold ;
And now again the lady sternly cried,—
" Down the black rock this baby must be
roll'd!
Nay, shrink not from the deed ; be rich, as thou
art bold.
" Waste not in vulgar toil thy feeble age ; ,
Bid Poverty, with all its ills, retire :
Ought Conscience warfare with the heart
to wage,
When all its passions, all its joys, expire?
Who shall condemn Ambition's glorious fire ?
Who bid thee linger through thy little day
The slave of gilded fools ? whose ruthless ire
Will bend thee to the grave, a willing prey,
And bid, in envious scorn, thy very name decay.
" The soldier sheds, for gold, a brother's
blood;
The sons of Rapine revel wild in joys ;
For gold the sailor ploughs the billowy flood ;
The statesman barters for Ambition's toys :
And shall vile Misery thy peace annoy ?
Shall threatening Famine pinch thee to the
heart
While gold can every scorpion care destroy,
Pouring its unction sweet on every smart,
And blunting, ere it falls, Oppression's wither-
ing dart?"
And now again the babe his finger press'd,
Imploring silently his fostering care :
'Twas Nature's eloquence— it touch'd his
breast, [there !
For Nature's spark was not extinguish'd
He to his bosom snatch'd the treasure rare ;
It nestled fondly : while the lady base
Rush'd through the forest ; and the morn-
ing-air,
Fanning with fragrant wings the baby's face,
O'erspread his dimpled cheek with tints of rosy
grace.
Now to the margin of the rock they came :
The hunter's merry horn was heard afar ;
The cold dew glitter'd, while the sunny flame
Rush'd unimpeded o'er the morning- star,
Rolling o'er elouds of gold Day's burning
car:
And now the lark its hymn of rapture sung,
' The sheep-bell tinkled, and the deafening
jar
Of tumbling torrents through the valley rung,
While the young playful kid frisk'd the dank
weeds among. , .
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102 MRS. ROBINSONS
Now Owen, pacing by the bounding flood,
With arms extended held the fearless child ;
And soon an icy langour chill'd his blood ;
And now his starting eye-balls gazing wild,
Fix'd on the baby, as it sweetly smiled,
While the rude crag the trembling caitiff trod ;
When lo ! his wither'd hands, by gold denied,
Were numb'd and palsied like a senseless clod,
Smote by the chastening power of Nature's shud-
dering God !
Now up the mazes of the darkening dell
The foster-mother, like a maniac, hied ;
And bursting sighs her bosom taught to swell,
For at the dawn of day her son had died !
Her only son— old Owen's lusty pride !
But grief to horror turn'd when Owen told
The story of tfce lady — who, to hide
Her guilt and shame, had sought, by 'witch-
ing gold,
To have her own dear babe down the black
mountain roll'd !
And ere the setting sun, with vivid ray,
Gilded the casement of their hovel low,
She saw the raven cross the foamy way ; [go ;
She heard the screech-owl o'er the mountain
While the true sheep-dog howl'd, portend-
ing wo:
Now a dim circle round the moon was roll'd,
And now the church-yard elms waved to
and fro, [told, —
While the small death-watch bitter griefs fore-
For Owen's cheek was pale, and Owen's heart
was cold !
CANTO II.
Eight years pass'd on, and still the stripling
grew,
But nothing lovely in his face was seen ;
His stature low, his brow of swarthy hue,
And coarse and vulgar was his infant mien ;
A more unseemly thing scarce lived, I ween;
Yet in his soul the pure affections shone,
Meek charity, with modest pride serene ;
While truth and dauntless courage were his
own,
Though, when he wept, his tear would melt a
heart of stone.
The village gossips, 'round the blazing hearth,
Would talk in wonder of the foster-child;
And one would say he was of lowly birth,
While others thought him born of savage
wild ; fguiled :
And so they many a freezing night be-
Till, falling once from an o'erhanging tree,
Amidst the torrent strong, he fearless smiled !
POEMS.
And then the wrinkled hags with devilish glee,
Swore " the undaunted boy some witch's brat
must be!"
And oft, upon the brow of mountain-steep,
As slow the landscape faded from his view,
With devious steps he wander'd far, to weep
(While all around the sultry vapours flew),
Heedless of withering bolt, or drizzly dew :
And as the giant shadows vanquish'd day,
Veiling the woodland dell in dusky hue,
By the small tinkling sheep-bell would he
stray, [away :
And, like to elfin ghost, bemoan the hours
And often, on the mossy bank, alone,
Strange figures would he draw, and fea-
tures vile ;
And, building a rude seat of rugged stone,
Would sit whole hours, and ponder all the
while;
Or, talking to himself, would nod and smile ;
And sometimes by the starry light he'd go
Where the dank yew o'erhangs the church-
yard stile, f toe,
And there, with hemlock, nightshade, miale-
Weaving a poison'd wreath, would chaunt a
strain of wo.
No wealth had he, no garland of renown ;
Slow pass'd the minutes through the live-
long day,
Till from the upland mead, or thistled down,
He watch'd the sun's last lustre fade away :
And if perchance his little heart was gay,
It beat to hear some merry minstrel's note,
Or goat-herd caroling his roundelay
On craggy cliffs, while from the linnet's
throat [float :
Full many a winding thrill on airy wings did
And when the wintry moon, with crystal eye,"
Above the promontory bleak 'gan sail,
Shrouding her modest brow in amber sky,
While shrill the night-breeze whistled o'er
the vale,
Oft would he tell some melancholy tale
To the deep lucid stream that wander'd slow,
Listless and weary, indolent and pale,
His bosom swelling high with bitter wo,
Which none but luckless wight with tender
heart can know.
And oft to others' plaints would he give heed :
For all that grieved, his bosom learn'd to
sigh:
He could not see the fleecy victim bleed,
Nor snare the free-born tenant of the sky,
Nor lesser wight be teazed when he stood
by;
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THE FOSTER-CHILD.
for brute Oppression roused his little rage ;
In combat fierce the younker to defy
He would, with breathless ire, his limbs en-
gage, [assuage.
While neither threats nor pain his anger could
With ebon locks umkempt, and mean attire,
A mountain weather-beaten wight was he :
And passing meek ; save when resentful ire
Bade from his glance the living lightning
flee, [be :
To think that Vice should Virtue's master
For though no classic knowledge graced his
mind
From legends old, or feats of chivalry,
Still 'round his heart the Wondrous instinct
twined
Which throbb'd in every vein— the love of hu-
man kind.
One night, the murky eve of Christmas-day,
When mystic-fraught the wintry tempest
blows,
Dim shadows hover'd in the blunted ray,
While red the moon o'er Snowden's summit
rose: [close;
And soon fierce hurricanes the heavens un-
Howling, the wild blaze danced upon the
wave ; [shows ;
And now a blazing fire the mountain
The troubled streams like blood their margent
lave ; [grave.
And rays of livid light gleam o'er old Owen's
The foster-mother rose in dread dismay,
And to the wayward stripling's chamber
went;
And now the paly stream of tardy day
Stole down the hill, with frozen dew be-
sprent,
Silvering with light the little tenement :
The swarthy boy upon his pallet rude
Slept sweet and soundly, dreaming of con-
tent;
While eager-eyed the foster-mother stood,
Like a fell bird of prey watching a victim brood :
For idle tales had now been widely spread, —
That potent witchcraft had possest the >
child ; [shed, |
That mystic spells, from poisonous herbage
The urchin's wandering senses had beguiled,
Filling his brain with incantations wild :
And some did swear that, by a fiend possest,
Like a vile killcrop,* breathing airs defiled,
The corn would mildew, by his fingers prest,
And new-born babes expire, meeting his glancf
unblest.
• A witch's changeling.
103
Near where the black-thorn mark'd the barren
hill,
Dotting with frequent tufts its rugged side,
In a clay hut, a wither'd imp of ill
Her art accurst for many a year had plied :
Bearded she was, and swart, and haggard-
eyed;
And on her back a lump deforming grew;
A huge dried snake about her waist was
tied,
And hideous forms upon the floor she drew
With hemlock's poison 'd juice mingled with
midnight dew :
The wings of bats, the hides of toads, were
seen
Clothing the walls of her infernal cell ;
And spiders grim, hiding their webs between,
Watch'd the foul hag weaving her potent
spell,
Low muttering like a sullen fiend of hell :
A murderer's skull, fallen from a gibbet high,
And fill'd with water from a stagnant well,
Oft to her Skinny lips she would apply,
With many a bitter curse and many a labour'd
sigh :
Close at her feet a brindled mastiff lay, [eyes ;
Watching her bloody toil with bloodshot
And now he howl'd, as if with dire dismay,
Shaking the hovel with his fearful cries;
And now, with hide erect, he couching lies :
A ravening kite, which on the lattice stood,
With side-glance keen the wither'd sorceress
spies,
His talons streaming with the wild kid's
Wood, [flood.
Which down the thorny steep roll'd in a crimson
Thither in haste the foster-mother flew,
To traffic with the wicked imp of hell :
For every starry path the sorceress knew ;
Could mark how high the stormy flood
would swell ;
Of comets prattle, and eclipse foretel;
Draw from theiT mouldering shrouds the
guilty dead ;
Ride on the whirlwind over hill and dell ;
Dance on the murderer's grave, and fearless
tread [bed.
O'er the wide yawning wave of ocean's foamy
And now the foster-mother told her tale
(The sorceress listening with malignant
smile), [pale;
How the lorn boy would wander, sad and
Or pluck the yew-tree from the church-yard
stile ; [vile :
Or bind his brows with weeds and herbage
How he would sing his wild song to the blast,
And so night's melancholy noon beguile;
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104
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Or, when the death-knell o'er the meadow
pass'd,
Sigh through the dreary hour, and wish it were
his last.
And now again the witch, with ghastly grin,
Turn'd to her rushy bed, and shriek'd with
joy : [seen,
For, there full many a wither'd branch was
And many an herb infectious, to destroy,
Gather'd at dawn-light by the foster-boy ;
For, ofttimes he the spiteful hag would taunt,
And, scattering poisons, her lone hours an-
noy;
Or, shrieking like a ghost, her threshold
haunt,
Till morn above the steep its gaudy beams would
flaunt:
And now across her path the straw he threw,
Or seratch'd her sbrivel'd arm with crooked
pin;
Now up the moon-light lane her feet pursue,
And shout behind her with insulting din : —
. To mock the old and feeble were a sin :
But that the subtle hag, with menaced rage,
Would urge the daily warfare to begin ;
And oft with stick and stone in fight engage,
Mingling with potent wrath the peevish bent of
age.
The tale being told, the little wretch forlorn
Was sentenced to endure each wounding
wrong ;
Assail'd by all the shafts of ribald scorn,
And mark'd the make-game of a senseless
throng ;-»—
For, Persecution is a giant strong.
And now his food was frequently denied ;
His sport was seldom, and his labour long ;
His hunger, herbs medicinal supplied,
With ears of mildew'd corn, steep'd in the sandy
tide.
One morn the foster-mother early rose ;
'Twas the blythe morn of love-inspiring
May:
But fearful dreams had haunted her repose,
Darkening the splendour of the rising day :
She sought the boy, — but he was far away !
For sharp unkindness did his peace annoy !
And little could he brook the rigid sway,
Which tyrant natures, tyrant souls, enjoy ;
Their cruel sport to wound—their triumph to
destroy !
Yet whither could the little wanderer go?
A stranger to the world's wide mazes he ;
Despair his guide, his sole companion Wo —
A solitary exile doom'd to be :
He gazed aghast ; no friend his eyes could
see;
And yet in fancy he beheld the day
When, smiling, on his foster-mother's knee,
He oftentimes has heard her sighing say,
How to her cot he came bedight in rich array.
Perchance he thought, some lord his sire might
live ;
Some lady sweet his bashful mother prove,
While shame might bid her to a stranger give
The holy treasure of a parent's love.
O barbarous pride! which Nature cannot
move;
Shall her poor offspring ever plead in vain?
Shall they, unown'd by guilty greatness,
rove;
Or, lost in ignorance, unblest remain,
Like a wild withering tree, placed on a desert
plain?
And now his feverish brain began to burn,
While Memory conjured up each hour to
view
Which, erst so tranquil, never could return—
Ah, Memory ! sad thy visions are, and true !
When dark Despair a gloomy picture drew;
While Fancy madden'd on the varied scene :
And now the clouds resumed a cheerful
hue ; [tween,
Yet, while he watch'd the rays of light be-
On all the earth there breathed no wretch so
lorn, I ween.
O'er hill and dale the friendless foster-child,
With weary footsteps, bent his lonely way :
And now he hasten'd o'er the thorny wild ;
Now by the rippling brook would musing
stay ;
Or dream, on flowery banks, of visions gay :
Then, starting wild, his pilgrimage pursue,
Not knowing whither he was doom'd to
stray, [dew,
While his wan cheek was sprent with chilling
Or fierce the angry storm athwart his bosom
flew.
At length gaunt Poverty, of sallow hue,
And cold Neglect, with all their rueful
train,
About his heart their witheiing mischiefs
threw ;
And sorely was he pinch'd with bitter pain:
Yet proud was he, and fraught with high
disdain,
Though many a day he fasted sad and lone ;
And all night long across the dismal plain
He pour'd, amid the blast, his lending groan,
While the faint glimmering stars in chilling lus-
tre shone :
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THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER.
105
And many a burning day* and freezing night,
The little traveller on his journegpfctMfcfr
And often, by the moon-beam's quivering
light, [went,
He watch'd his shadow lengthening as he
And, so companion'd, seem'd awhile con-
tent :
Yet when, perchance, he met a lady gay,
With sudden pangs his little heart was rent ;
For then remembrance show'd the rich array
Which (so the tale was told) bedeck'd his natal
day.
It so befel that, on a summer's eve,
A stately mansion met his tearful eyes :
And suddenly his soul forgot to grieve ;
And straight a beauteous lady he espies :
With unknown hopes his heavy heart did
rise,
For on her cheek a gentle smile was seen ;
And now she mark'd his form with fond
surprise!
For, by his father's smile, his father's mien,
Her own wrong'd baby-boy she knew full well,
I Ween.
'Twas instinct rushing through her beating
breast !
Instinct, the lamp divine that lights the
soul;
For many a night, deprived of balmy rest,
Her feverish eye-balls had been taught to
roll :
Oh ! what can conscious agony control ?
And, when she ponder'd on the foaming tide,
From her shrunk heart hope's soothing
visions stole ;
And sickening was the luxury of pride,
While ail the mother's fears beat high against
her side.
Now the wide country 'round with revels
rung: [scene;
" The stranger boy" was sovereign of the
And there the minstrel play'd, the peasant
sung,
And dancing circles dotted o'er the green ;
Such rural merriment had ne'er been seen :
The soft harp echo'd down the woody dell ;
And sporting gay the sombre shades be-
tween,
The wild goat wanton'd ; while afar the swell
On the light breeze was borne, of many a dis-
tant bell.
But who can paint the mother's silent joy ?
Who measure the full transport of her soul ?
While on the smiling cheek of her lost boy
Her tears repentant swiftly now 'gan roll :
And wo to him who would their course
control !
For 'twas the extract of the wounded heart,
Wafted to Wkammarty* sighs that nature
stole-
Sighs which more sacred rapture can impart
Than all the pomp of wealth, and all the smiles
of art!
THE
LADY OF THE BLACK
TOWER.
" Watch no more the twinkling stars ;
Watch no more the chalky bourne ;
I.*dy ! from the holy wars
Never will thy love return !
Cease to watch, and cease to mourn,
Thy lover never will return !
" Watch no more the yellow moon,
Peering o'er the mountain's head ;
Rosy day, returning soon,
Will see thy lover, pale and dead !
Cease to weep, and cease to mourn,
Thy lover will no more return !
" Lady, in the Holy wars,
Fighting for the Cross, he died ;
Low he lies, and many scars
Mark his cold and mangled side ;
In his winding sheet he lies,
Lady ! check those rending sighs.
" Hark ! the hollow sounding gale
Seems to sweep in murmurs by,
Sinking slowly down the vale ;
Wherefore, gentle lady, sigh ?
Wherefore moan, and wherefore sigh?
Lady, all that live must die.
" Now the stars are fading fast :
Swift their brilliant course are run ;
Soon shall dreary night be past :
Soon shall rise the cheering sun !
The sun will rise to gladden thee :
Lady, lady, cheerful be."
So spake a voice ! While sad and lone,
Upon a lofty tower, reclined,
A lady sat : the pale moon shone,
And sweetly blew the summer wind ;
Yet stUl, disconsolate in mind,
The lovely lady sat reclined.
The lofty tower was ivy clad ;
And round a dreary forest rose ;
The midnight bell was tolling sad—
'Twas tolling for a soul's repose !
The lady heard the gates unclose,
And from her seat in terror rose.
O
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106
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
The rammer moon shone bright and clear ;
She eaw the castle gates unclose ;
And now she saw four monks appear,
Loud chanting for a soul's repose.
Forbear, oh, lady ! look no more—
They pass' d— a livid corpse they bore.
They pass'd, and all .was silent now ;
The breeze upon the forest slept ;
The moon stole o'er the mountain's brow ;
Again the lady sigh'd and wept :
She watch' d the holy fathers go
Along the forest path below.
And now the dawn was bright, the dew
Upon the yellow heath was seen ;
The clouds were of a rosy hue,
The sunny lustre shone between :
The lady to the chapel ran,
While the slow matin prayer began.
And then, once more, the fathers grey
She mark'd employ'd in holy prayer :
Her heart was full, she could not pray,
For love and fear were masters there.
Ah, lady ! thou wilt pray ere long
To sleep those lonely aisles among !
And now the matin prayers were o'er;
The barefoot monks of order grey,
Were thronging to the chapel door,
When there the lady stopp'd the way :
" Tell me," she cried, "whose corpse so
pale,
Last night ye bore along the vale ?"
Oh, lady ! question us no more :
No corpse did we bear down the dale !"
The lady sunk upon the floor,
Her quivering lip was deathly pale.
The bare-foot monks now wliisper'd,
sad,
" God grant our lady be not mad.'
The monks departing, one by one,
The chapel gates in silence close ;
When from the altar-steps of stone,
The trembling lady feebly goes :
While the morning sheds a ruby light,
The painted windows glowing bright.
And now she heard a hollow sound ;
It seem'd to come from graves below ;
And now again she look'd around,
A voice came murmuring sad and slow ;
And now she heard it feebly cry,
" Lady ! all that live must die !
" Watch no more from yonder tower,
Watch no more the star of day !
Watch no more the dawning hour,
That chases sullen night away !
Cease to watch, and cease to mourn,
Thy lover will no more return !"
She look'd around, and now she view'd,
Clad in a doublet gold and green,
A youthful knight : he frowning stood,
And noble was his mournful mien ;
And now he said, with heaving sigh,
" Lady, all that live must die !**
She rose to quit the altar's stone,
She cast a look to heaven and sigh'd,
When lo ! the youthful knight was gone ;
And, scowling by the lady's side,
With sightless skull and bony hand,
She saw a giant spectre stand !
His flowing robe was long and clear,
.His ribs were white as drifted snow :
The lady's heart was chill' d with fear ;
She rose, but scarce had power to go :
The spectre grlnn'd a dreadful smile,
And walk'd beside her down the aisle.
And now he waved his rattling hand ;
And now they reach'd the chapel door,
And there the spectre took his stand ;
While, rising from the marble floor,
A hollow voice was heard to cry,
" Lady, all that live must die !
" Watch no more the evening star !
Watch no more the glimpse of morn !
Never from the holy war,
Lady, will thy love return \
See this bloody cross ; and see
His bloody scarf he sends to thee !"
And now again the youthful knight
Stood smiling by the lady's side ;
His helmet shone with crimson light,
His sword with drops of blood was dyed ••
And now a soft and mournful song
Stole the chapel aisles among.
Now from the spectre's paley cheek
The flesh began to waste away ;
The vaulted doors were heard to creak,
And dark became the summer day !
The spectre's eyes were sunk, but he
Seem'd with their sockets still to see !
The second bell is heard to ring :
Four barefoot monks of orders grey,
Again their holy service sing ;
And round the chapel altar pray :
The lady counted o'er and o'er,
And shudder'd while she counted — four 1
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THE XiAD Y* OP
" Oh ! father*, who was he, so gay,
That stood beside the chapel door?
Oh ! tell me, fathers, tell me pray."
'ITie monks replied, " We fathers four,
Lady no other have we seen,
Since in this holy place we've been !"
PART SECOND.
Now the merry bugle horn
Through the forest sounded far ;
When on the lofty tower, forlorn,
The lady watch'd the evening star ;
The evening star that seem'd to be
Rising from tine darkened sea !
The summer sea was dark and still,
The sky was streak'd with lines of gold,
The mist rose grey above the hill,
And low the clouds of amber roll'd :
The lady on the lofty tower
Watch'd the calm and silent hour.
And, while she watch'd, she saw advance
A ship, with painted streamers gay :
She saw it on the green wave dance,
And plunge amid the silver spray ;
While from the forest's haunts, forlorn,
Again she heard the bugle horn.
The sails were full ; the breezes rose;
The billows curl'd along the shore ;
And now the day began to close ;—
The bugle horn was heard no more,
But, rising from the watery way,
An airy voice was heard to say :
11 Watch no more the evening star;
Watch no more the billowy sea ;
Lady, from the holy war
Thy lover hastes to comfort thee :
Lady, lady, cease to mourn ;
Soon thy lover will return."
Now she hastens to the bay ;
Now the rising storm she hears ;
Now the sailors smiling say,
" Lady, lady, check your fears :
Trust us, lady; we will be
Your pilots o'er the stormy sea."
Now the little bark she view'd,
Moor'd beside the flinty steep ;
And now upon the foamy flood,
The tranquil breezes seem'd to sleep.
The moon arose ; her silver ray
Seem'd On the silent deep to play.
Now music stole across the main :
It was a sweet but mournful tone;
107
THE BLACK TOWER.
It came a slow and dulcet strain ;
It came from where the pale moon shone
And, while it pass'd across the sea,
More soft, and soft, it seem'd to be.
Now on the deck the lady stands ;
The vessel steers across the main ;
It steers towards the holy land,
Never to return again ;
Still the sailors cry, « We'll be
Your pilots o'er the stormy sea."
Now she hears a low voice say,
" Deeper, deeper, deeper still ;
Hark! the black'nmg billows play ;
Hark ! the waves the vessel fill :
Lower, lower, down we go;
All is dark and still below."
Now a flash of vivid light
On the rolling deep was seen !
And now the lady saw the knight,
With doublet rich of gold and green :
From the sockets of his eyes,
A pale and streaming light she spies !
And now his form transparent stood,
Smiling with a ghastly mien ;—
And now the calm and boundless flood
Was, like the emerald, bright and green ;
And now 'twas of a troubled hue,
While, " Deeper, deeper," sang the crew.
Slow advanced the morning light,
Slow they plough'd the wavy tide;
When, on a cliff of dreadful height,
A castle's lofty towers they spied :
The lady heard the sailor-band
Cry, " Lady, this is holy land.
" Watch no more the glittering spray ;
Watch no more the weedy sand ;
Watch no more the star of day ;
Lady, this is holy land :
This castle's lord shall welcome thee ;
Then, lady, lady, cheerful be."
Now the castle-gates they pass ;
Now across the spacious square,
Cover'd high with dewy grass,
Trembling steals the lady fair :
And now the castle's lord was seen,
Clad in a doublet gold and green.
He led her through the gothic hall,
With bones and skulls encircled round ;
" Oh, let not this thy soul appal !"
He cried, " for this is holy ground."
He led her through the chambers lone,
'Mid many a shriek and many a groan,
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108
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Now to the banquet-room they came :
Around a table of black stone
She mark'd a faint and vapoury flame ;
Upon the horrid feast it shone—
And there, to close the maddening sight,
Unnumber'd spectres met the light.
Their teeth were like the brilliant, bright ;
Their eyes were blue as sapphire clear ;
Their bones were of a polish'd white ;
Gigantic did their ribs appear !—
And now the knight the lady led,
And placed her at the table's head ! —
Just now the lady woke :— for she
Had slept upon the lofty tower,
And dreams of dreadful phantasie
Had! fill'd the lonely moon-light hour :
Her pillow was the turret-stone,
And on her breast the pale moon shone.
But now a real voice she hears :
It was her lover's voice ;— for he,
To calm her bosom's rending fears,
That night had cross'd the stormy sea :
" I come," said he, " from Palestine,
To prove myself, sweet lady, thine."
ALL ALONE.
Ah ! wherefore by the church-yard side,
Poor little lorn one, dost thou stray ?
Thy wavy locks but thinly hide
The tears that dim thy blue-eye's ray ;
And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,
And weep, that thou are left alone ?
Thou art not left alone, poor boy,
The traveller stops to hear thy tale ;
No heart, so hard, would thee annoy !
For though thy mother's cheek is pale,
And withers under yon grave stone,
Thou art not, urchin, left alone.
I know thee well ! thy yellow hair
In silky waves I oft have seen ;
Thy dimpled face so fresh and fair,
Thy roguish smile, thy playful mein,
Were all to me, poor orphan, known,
Ere Fate had left thee— rail alone !
Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,
Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale !
Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn,
And bare thy bosom meets the gale ;
And oft I hear thee deeply groan,
That thou, poor boy, art left alone.
Thy naked feet are wounded sore
With thorns, that cross thy daily road '
The winter winds around thee roar,
The church- yard is thy bleak abode ;
Thy pillow now a cold grave stone—
And there thou lov'st to grieve— alone !
The rain has drench'd thee, all night long ;
The nipping frost thy bosom froze ;
And still, the yew-tree shades among,
I heard thee sigh thy artless woes ;
I heard thee, till the day-star shone
In darkness weep— and weep alone !
Oft have I seen thee, little boy,
Upon thy lovely mother's knee ;
For when she lived, thou wert her joy,
Though now a mourner thou must be !
For she lies low, where yon grave stone
Proclaims that thou art left alone.
Weep, weep no more ; on yonder hill
The village bells are ringing, gay;
The merry reed, and brawling rill
Call thee to rustic sports away.
Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan,
A truant from the throng— alone ?
" I cannot the green hill ascend,
I cannot pace the upland mead ;
I cannot in the vale attend
To hear the merry-sounding reed :
For all is still beneath yon stone,
Where my poor mother's left alone !
" I cannot gather gaudy flowers
To dress the scene of revels loud—
I cannot pass the evening hours
Among the noisy village crowd ;
For all in darkness, and alone
My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.
" See how the stars begin to gleam,
The sheep-dog barks— 'tis time to go ;
The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam
Peeps through the yew-trees' shadowy rov
It falls upon the white grave-stone,
Where my dear mother sleeps alone.
" O stay me not, for I must go,
The upland path in baste to tread ;
For there the pale primroses grow,
They grow to dress my mother's bed.
They must ere peep of day, be strown,
Where she lies mouldering all alone.
" My father o'er the stormy sea
To distant lands was borne away,
And still my mother stay'd with me,
And wept by night and toil'd by day.
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And shall 1 ever quit the stone
Where she is left to sleep alone.
" My father died, and still I found
My mother fond and kind to me ;
I felt her breast with rapture bound
When first I prattled on her knee—
And then she blest my infant tone,
And little thought of yon grave-stone.
" No more her gentle voice I hear,
No more her smile of fondness see ;
Then wonder not I shed the tear,
She would have died to follow me !
And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone,
And I still live— to weep alone.
a The playful kid, she loved so well,
From yon high clift was seen to fall ;
I heard afar his tinkling bell,
Which seem'd in vain for aid to call—
I heard the harmless sufferer moan,
And grieved that he was left alone.
** Our faithful dog grew mad, and died,
The lightning smote our cottage low —
We had no resting-place beside,
And knew not whither we should go :
For we were poor— and hearts of stone
Will never throb at misery's groan.
" My mother still survived for me,
She led me to the mountain's brow,
She watch'd me, while at yonder tree
I sat, and wove the ozier bough ;
And oft she cried, " fear not, mine own !
Thou shalt not, boy, be left alone."
" The blast blew strong, the torrent rose
And bore our shatter'd cot away ;
And where the clear brook swiftly flows,
Upon the turf, at dawn of day,
When bright the sun's full lustre shone,
I wander 'd, friendless— and alone !"
Thou art not, boy, for I have seen
Thy tiny footsteps print the dew,
And while the morning sky serene
Spread o'er the hill a yellow hue,
I heard thy sad and plaintive moan,
Beside the cold sepulchral stone.
And when the summer noontide hours
With scorching rays the landscape spread,
I mark'd thee, weaving fragrant flowers
To deck thy mother's silent bed !
Nor at the church-yard's simple stone
Wert thou, poor Urchin, left alone.
I follow'd thee along the dale,
And up the woodland's shad' wy* way :
OLD BARNARD. 109
1 heard thee tell thy mournful tale
As slowly sunk the star of day :
Nor when its twinkling light had flown
Wert thou a wanderer all alone.
" O ! yes, I was ! and still shall be
A wanderer, mourning and forlorn ;
For what is all the world to me—
What are the dews and. buds of morn?
Since she who left me sad, alone
In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone !
" No brother's tear shall fall for me, •
For I no brother ever knew ;
No friend shall weep my destiny,
For friends are scarce, and tears are few ;
None do I see, save on this stone,
Where I will stay and weep alone.
" My father never will return,
He rests beneath the sea-green wave;
I have no kindred left to mourn
When I am hid in yonder grave :
Not one to dress with flowers the stone !
Then— surely, I am left alone ! " .
OLD BARNARD.
A MONKISH TALE.
Old Barnard was still a lusty hind,
Though his age was full fourscore ;
And he used to go
Through hail and snow,
To a neighb'ring town,
With his old coat brown,
To beg at his grandson's door !
Old Barnard briskly jogg'd along,
When the hail and the snow did fall ;
And whatever the day,
He was always gay,
Did the broad sun glow,
Or the keen wind blow,
While he begg'd in his grandson's hall.
His grandson was a squire, and he
Had houses, and lands, and gold ;
And a coach beside,
And horses to ride,
And a downy bed
To repose his head,
And he felt not the winter's cold.
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210
Old Barnard had neither house nor lands,
Nor gold to buy warm array ;
Nor a coach to carry
His old bones weary,
Nor beds of feather,
In freezing weather
To sleep the long nights away.
Bat Barnard a quiet conscience had,
No guile did his bosom know ;
And when evening closed
His old bones reposed,
Though the wintry blast
O'er his hovel pass'd,
And he slept while the winds did blow.
But his grandson he could never sleep
Till the sun began to rise-;
For a feverish pain
Oppress'd his brain,
And he fear'd some evil,
And dream 'd of the devil
Whenever he closed his eyes !
And whenever he feasted the rich and gay,
The devil still had his joke ;
For however rare
The sumptuous fare,
When the sparkling glass
Was seen to pass-
He was fearful the draught would choke !
And whenever, in fine and costly gear,
The squire went forth to ride
The owl would cry,
And the raven fly
Across his road,
While the sluggish toad
Would crawl by his palfrey's side.
And he could not command the sunny day,
For the rain would wet him through ;
And the wind would blow
Where his nag did go,
And the thunder roar,
And the torrents pour,
And he felt the chill evening dew.
And the cramp would ring his youthful bones,
And would make him groan aloud ;
And the doctor's art
Could not cure the heart,
While the conscience still
Was o'ercharged with ill ;
And he dream'd of the pick-axe and shroud.
An v why could old Bernard sweetly sleep,
Since so poor and so old was he ?
Because he could say
At the close of day,
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
" I have done no wrong
To the weak or strong,
And so Heaven look kind on me !"
One night the grandson hied him forth
To a monk that lived hard by ;
" O father!" said he,
"lam come to thee,
For I'm sick of sin,
And would fain begin
To repent me before I die !
" I must pray for your soul," the monk replied,
" But will see you to-morrow, ere noon :
Then the monk flew straight
To old Barnard's gate,
And he bade him haste
O'er the dewy waste,
By the light of the waning moon.
In the monkish cell did old Barpard wait,
And his grandson went thither soon ;
In a habit of grey,
Ere the dawn of day,
With a cowl and cross,
On the sill of moss,
He knelt by the light of the moon.
" O ! shrive me, father !" the grandson cried,
" For the devil is waiting for me !
I have robb'd the poor,
I have shut my door,
And kept out the good
When they wanted food,
And I come for my pardon to thee-"
" Get home, young sinner," old Barnard said,
" And your grandsire quickly see ;
Give him half your store,
For he's old and poor,
And avert each evil,
And cheat the devil,
By making him rich as thee."
The squire obey'd; and old Barnard now
Is rescued from every evil :
For he fears no wrong
From the weak or strong,
And the squire can snore
When the loud winds roar,
For he dreams no more of the devil.
THE HAUNTED BEACH.
Upon a lonely desert beach,
Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head,
Though lofty barks were shatterU
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THIS
The sea- weeds gathering near the door,
A sombre path displayed ;
And, all around, the deafening roar
Re-echoed on the chalky shore,
By the green billows made.
Above a jutting cliff was seen
Where sea-birds hover'd craving;
And all around the craggs were bound
With weeds— for ever waving.
And here and there, a cavern wide
Its shadowy jaws display *d ;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver'd mast was seen- to ride
Where the green billows stray'd,
And often, while the moaning wind
Stole o'er the summer ocean,
The moonlight scene was all serene,
The waters scarce in motion ;
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,
The fisherman beheld a band
Of spectres gliding hand in hand-
Where the green billows play'd.
And pale their faces were as snow,
And sullenly they wander'd ;
And to the skies with hollow eyes
They look'd as though they ponder' d.
And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,
They dismal bowlings made,
And while the blast blew strong and loud,
The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd,
Where the green billows play'd.
And then above the haunted hut
The curlews screaming hover'd ;
And the low door, with furious roar,
The frothy breakers cover'd.
For in the fisherman's lone shed
A murder'd man was laid,
With ten wide gashes in his head,
And deep was made his sandy bed
Where the green billows play'd.
A shipwreck'd mariner was he,
Doom'd from his home to sever
Who swore to be through wind and sea
Firm and undaunted ever !
And when the wave resistless roll'd,
About his arm he made
A packet rich of Spanish gold,
And, like a British sailor bold,
Plung'd where the billows play'd.
The spectre band, his messmates brave,
Sunk in the yawning ocean,
While to the mast he lash'd him fast,
And braved the storm's commotion,
TBUMPETER. J ] X
The winter moon upon the sand
A silvery carpet made,
And mark'd the sailor reach the land,
And mark'd his murderer wasty his hand
Where the green billows play'd. ! '
And since that hour the fisherman
Has toil'd and toil'd in vain ;
For all the night the moony light
Gleams on the specter' d main !
And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,
The murderer's liquid way
Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
Where the green billows play.
Full thirty years his task has been,
Day after day more weary ;
For Heaven design'd his guilty mini
Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
. He has not power to stray ;
But destined misery to sustain,
He wastes, in solitude and pain,
A loathsome life away.
O
b
r
x
ji
THE TRUMPETER.
AN OLD ENGLISH TALK.
It was in the days of a gay British king
(In the old fashion'd custom of merry-making)
The palace of Woodstock with revels did ring,
While they sang and caroused— one and all :
For the monarch a plentiful treasury had,
And his courtiers were pleased, and no visage
was sad, [mad,
And the knavish and foolish with drinking were
While they sat in the banqueting halL
Some talk'd of their valour, and some of their
race, [face ;
And vaunted, till vaunting was black in the
Some bragg'd for a title, and some for a place,
And, like braggarts, they bragg'd one and all !
Some spoke of their scars in the holy crusade,
Some boasted the banner of fame they display 'd,
And some sang their loves in the soft serenade,
As they sat in the banquetting halL
And here sat a baron, and there sat a knight,
And here stood a page in his habit all bright,
And here a young soldier in armour bedight
With a friar caroused, one and all. t>
Some play'd on the dulcimer, some on the lute,
And some, who had nothing to talk of, were mute,
Till the morning, awaken'd, put on her grey
And the lark hover'd over the hall. [suit-
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112
It was in a vast gothlc hall that they Bate,
And the, tables were cover'd with rich gilded
< te, [state,
And thtf g and his minions were toping in
Till ibt noddies turn'd round, one and all—
And the sun through the tall painted windows
'gan peep,
And the vassals were sleeping, or longing to
sleep, [did keep,
Though the courtiers, still waking, their secrets
While the minstrels play'd sweet, in the hall.
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
" My liege he knows how a good subject to
prize—
And I therefore demand — before all—
I this castle possess : and the right to maintain
Five hundred stout bowmen to follow my train,
And as many strong vassals to guard my do-
main
As the lord of the banquetting hall !
And, now in their cups, the bold topers began
To call for more wine, from the cellar yeoman,
And, while each one replenish'd his goblet or
The monarch thus spake to them all : [can,
" It is fit that the nobles do jnst what they
please,
That the great live in idleness, riot, and ease,
And that those should be favour' d, who mark
my decrees,
And should feast in the banquetting hall.
" It is fit," said the monarch, " that riches
should claim
A passport to freedom, to honour, and fame,—
That the poor should be humble, obedient, and
And, in silence, submit— one and all. [tame,
That the wise and the holy should toil for the
great,
That the vassals should tend at the tables of
state, [the gate
That the pilgrim should — pray for our souls at
While we feast in our banquetting hall.
" That the low-lineaged carles should be scanti-
ly fed—
That their drink should be small, and still small-
er their bread ; [led,
That their wives and their daughters to ruin be
And submit to our will, one and all !
It is fit that whoever I choose to defend—
Shall be courted, and feasted, and loved as a
friend, [bend
While before them the good and enlighten'd shall
While they sit in the banquetting hall."
Now the topers grew bold, and each talk'd of his
right,
One would fain be a baron, another a knight ;
And another (because at the tournament fight
He had vanquished his foes, one and all)
Demanded a track of rich lands, and rich fare,
And of stout serving vassals a plentiful share ;
With a lasting exemption from penance and
prayer,
And a throne in the banquetting hall.
But one, who had neither been valiant nor wise,
With a tone of importance, thus vauntingly cries,
" I have fought with all nations, and bled in the
field,
See my lance is unshiver'd, though batter'd my
shield,
I have combatted legions, yet never would yield,
And the enemy fled— one and all !
I have rescued a thousand fair donnas, in Spain,
I have left in gay France every bosom in pain,
I have conquer'd the Russian, the Prussian, the
Dane,
And will reign in the banquetting hall !"
The monarch now rose, with majestical look,
And his sword from the scabbard of jewels he
took,
And the castle with laughter and ribaldry shook,
While the braggart accosted thus he :
" I will give thee a place that will suit thy de-
mand,
What to thee is more fitting than vassals or
land— [mand,
1 will give thee,— what justice and valour com-
For a trumpeter bold — thou shalt be !"
Now the revellers rose, and began to complain —
While they menaced with gestures, and frown'd
with disdain,
And declared that the nobles were fitter to reign
Than a prince so unruly as he.
But the monarch cried, sternly, they taunted
him so, [go—
" From this moment the counsel of fools I fore-
A.nd on wisdom and virtue will honours bestow,
For such, only, are welcome tome!"
So saying, he quitted the banquetting hall,
And leaving his courtiers and flatterers ail-
Straightway for his confessor loudly 'gan call,
" Oh, father ! now listen," said he :
" I have feasted the fool, I have pamper*d the
knave [hrave—
I have sco AT d at the wise, and neglected the
And here, holy man, absolution I crave—
For a penitent now I will be."
From that moment the monarch grew sober and
good,
(And nestled with birds of a different brood,)
For he found that the pathway which wisdom
pursued
Was pleasant, safe, quiet, and even !
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THE POOR SINGING
That by temperance, virtue, and liberal deeds,
By nursing the flowerets, and crushing the weeds,
The loftiest traveller always succeeds—
For his journey will lead him to Heaven.
DAME.
113
THE POOR SINGING DAME.
Beneath an old wall, that went round an old
castle,
For many a year, with brown ivy o'erspread ;
A neat little hovel, its lowly roof raising,
Defied the wild winds that howl'd over its
shed:
The turrets, that frown'd on the poor simple
dwelling, [roar,
Were rock'd to and fro, when the tempest would
And the river, that down the rich valley was
swelling,
Flow'd swiftly beside the green step of its door.
The summer sun gilded the rushy roof slanting,
The bright dews bespangled its ivy- bound
hedge,
And above, on the ramparts, the sweet birds
were chanting, [edge,
And wild buds thick dappled the clear river's
When the castle's rich chambers were haunted
and dreary,
The poor little hovel was still and secure ;
And no robber e'er enter'd, nor goblin nor fairy,
For the splendours of pride had no charms to
allure.
The lord of the castle, a proud surly ruler,
Oft heard the low dwelling with sweet music
ring,
For the old dame that lived in the little hut
cheerly, [sing :
Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily
When with revels the castle's great hall was
resounding, v [fear ;
The old dame was sleeping, not dreaming of
And when over the mountains the huntsmen
were bounding
She would open her lattice, their clamours to
hear.
To the merry-toned horn she would dance on the
threshold,
And louder, and louder repeat her old song :
And when winter its mantle of frost was dis-
playing,
She caroll'd, undaunted, the bare woods
among ; [tag*
She would gather dry fern, ever happy and sing-
With her cake of brown bread* and her jug
of brown beer,
And would smile when she heard the great cas-
tle-bell ringing,
Inviting the proud to their prodigal cheer.
Thus she lived, ever patient and ever contented.
Till envy the lord of the castle possess'd,
For he hated that poverty should be so cheerful, -
While care could the rav'rites of fortune mo*
lest ; [her,
He sent his bold yeomen with threats to prevent
And still would she carol her sweet roundelay ;
At last, an old steward relentless he sent her—
Who bore her, all trembling, to prison away !
Three weeks did she languish, then died broken-
hearted, [sound !
Poor dame ! how the death-bell did mournfully
And along the green path six young bachelors
bore her,
And laid her for ever beneath the cold ground !
And the primroses pale 'mid the long grass were
growing [grave,
The bright dews of twilight bespangled her
And morn heard the breezes of summer soft
blowing,
To bid the fresh flowerets in sympathy wave*
The lord of the castle, from that fatal moment
When poor singing Mary was laid in her grave,
Each night was surrounded by screech-owls
appalling, [wave !
Which o'er the black turrets their pinions would
On the ramparts that frown'd on the river, swift
flowing,
They hover'd, still hooting a terrible song,
When his windows would rattle, the winter
blast blowing, [among !
They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys
Wherever he wander'd they followed him cry-
ing ; [way !
At dawnlight, at eve, still they haunted his
When the moon shone across the wide common
they hooted,
Nor quitted his path till the blazing of day.
His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying*
And he hung his proud head, and he perish'd
with shame ; [playing,
And the tomb of rich marble, no soft tear dis-
O'ershadows the grave of the poor singing
dame!
THE WIDOW'S HOME.
Close on the margin of a brawling brook
That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a cot,
O'ershadow'd by broad alders. At its door
A rude seat, with an ozier canopy,
P
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114
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Invites the weary traveller to rest.
Tis a poor humble dwelling ; yet within
The sWeets of joy domestic oft have made
The long hour not uncheerly, while the moor
Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak
blast brow.'
Swept with impetuous wing the mountain's
On every tree of the near sheltering wood
The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild,
Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling
Love-songs spontaneous, greets him merrily.
The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn,
And thinly scatter 'd with blue mists that float
On their bleak summits dimly visible,
Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air
Breathes healthful fragrance. On the cottage
The gadding ivy, and the tawny vine [roof
Bind the brown thatch, the shelter'd winter-hut
Of the tame sparrow, and the red-breast bold.
There dwells the soldier's widow ! young and
fair,
Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day
She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return, —
And every hour anticipates the day
( Deceived, yet cherish'd, by the flatterer Hope)
When she shall meet her hero. On the eve
Of sabbath rest, she trims her little hut
With blossoms fresh and gaudy, still herself
The queen-flower of the garland ! The sweet
rose [tears.
Of wood-wild beauty, blushing through her
One little son she has, a lusty boy,
The darling of her guiltless mourning heart,
-The only dear and gay associate
Of her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheek
Is never blanch'd with fear, though he will
climb [arm
The broad oak's branches, and with brawny
Sever the limpid wave. In his blue eye
Beams all his mother's gentleness of soul ;
While his brave father's warm intrepid heart
Throbs in his infant bosom. 'Tis a wight
Most valorous, yet pliant as the stem
Of the low vale-born lily, when the dew [voice
Presses its perfumed head. Eight years his
Has cheer'd the homely hut, for he could lisp
Soft words of filial fondness, ere his feet
Could measure the smooth path- way.
On the hills
He watches the wide waste of wavy green
Tissued with orient lustre, till his eyes
Ache with the dazzling splendour, and the main,
Rolling and blazing, seems a second sun !
And/ if a distant whitening sail appears,
Skimming the bright horizon, while the mast
Is canopied with clouds of dappled gold,
He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old tree
Is his lone watch-tower ; 'tis a blasted oak
Which from a vagrant acorn, ages past,
Sprang up to triumph like a savage bold,
Braving the season's warfare. There he sits
Silent and musing the lone evening hour,
'Till the short reign of sunny splendour fades
At the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings;
Or from his oaten pipe, untiring pours
The tune mellifluous which his father sung,
When he could only listen.
On the sands
That bind the level sea-shore, will he stray,
When morn unlocks the east, and flings afar
The rosy day-beam ! There the boy will stop
To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves
On the bleak strand, while winter o'er the main
Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again
He chants his father's ditty. Never more,
Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb
To the sweet cadence ! never more thy tear
Fall as the dulcet breathings give each word
Expression magical ! Thy father, boy,
Sleeps on the bed of death ! His tongue is mute,
His fingers have forgot their pliant art,
His oaten pipe will ne'er again be heard
Echoing along the valley ! Never more
Will thy fond mother meet the balmy smile
Of peace domestic, or the circling arm
Of valour, temper'd by the milder joys
Of rural merriment. His very name
Is now forgotten ! for no trophied tomb
Tells of his bold exploits : such heraldry
Befits not humble worth ; for pomp and praise
Wait in the gilded palaces of pride
To dress ambition's slaves. Yet, on his grave,
The unmark'd resting place of valour's sons,
The morning beam shines lust'rous j the meek
flower [breeze
Still drops the twilight tear, and the night
Moans melancholy music !
Then, to me,
O ! dearer far is the poor soldier's grave,
The widow's lone and unregarded cot,
The brawling brook, and the wide alder-bough,
The ozier canopy, and plumy choir,
Hymning the morn's return, than the rich dome
Of gilded palaces ! and sweeter far —
O ! far more graceful, far more exquisite,
The widow's tear bathing the living rose,
Than the rich ruby, blushing on the breast .
Of guilty greatness. Welcome then to me—
The widow's lowly home : The soldier's heir ;
The proud inheritor of Heaven's best gifts—
The mind unshackled, and the guiltless soul !
MISTRESS GURTON'S CAT*
A DOMESTIC TALE.
Old Mistress Gurton had a cat,
A tabby, loveliest of the race,
Sleek as a doe, and tame and fat,
With velvet paws and whisker'd face;
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MISTRESS
The doves of Venus not so fair,
Nor Juno's peacock half so grand
As Mistress Gurton's tabby Rose,
The proudest of the purring band :—
So dignified in aU her paces,
She seem'd a pupil of the Graces !
There never was a finer creature
In all the varying whims of Nature !
All liked Grimalkin, passing well !
Save Mistress Gurton — and, 'tis said,
She oft with furious ire would swell,
When, through neglect or hunger keen,
Fuss with a pilfer'd scrap was seen
Furring beneath the pent-house shed :
For, like some favourites, she was bent
On all things, yet with none content ;
And still, whate'er her place or diet,
She could not pick her bone in quiet.
Sometimes, new milk Grimalkin stole,
And sometimes— overset the bowl !
For over eagerness will prove
Ofttimes the bane of what we love ;
And sometimes, to her neighbour's home
Grimalkin like a thief would roam,
Teaching poor cats of humbler kind,
For high example sways the mind !
Sometimes she paced the garden wall,
Thick guarded by the shatter'd pane,
And, lightly treading with disdain,
Fear'd not ambition's certain fall !
Old china broke, or scratch'd her dame,
And brought domestic. friends to shame !
And many a time this cat was cursed,
Of squalling thieving things the worst !
Wish'd dead, and menaced with a string,
For cats of such scant fame deserved to swing !
One day Report, for ever busy,
Resolved to make Dame Gurton easy ;
A neighbour came, with solemn look,
And thus the dismal tidings broke.
" Know you that poor Grimalkin died
Last night, upon the pent-house side ?
I heard her for assistance call ;
I heard her shrill and dying squall !
1 heard her, in reproachful tone,
Four to the stars her feeble groan !
Alone I heard her piercing cries—
' With not a friend to close her eyes !'
" Poor puss ! I vow it grieves me sore
Never to see thy beauties more !
Never again to hear thee purr,
To stroke thy back of zebra fur ;
To see thy emerald eyes so bright,
Flashing around their lustrous light
Amid the solemn shades of night !
GURTON'S CAT. ij6
" Methinks I see her pretty paws—
As gracefully she paced along ;
1 hear her voice, so shrill, among
The chimney rows ! I see her claws,
While like a tyger she pursued
Undauntedly the pilfering race :
I see her lovely whisker 'd face
When she her nimble prey subdued !
And then how she would frisk and play,
And purr the evening hours away :
Now stretch'd beside the social fire ;
Now on the sunny lawn at noon,
Watching the vagrant birds that flew
Across the scene of varied hue,
To peck the fruit. Or when the moon
Stole o'er the hills in silvery suit,
How would she chant her lovelorn tale,
Soft as the wild Eolian lyre !
Till every brute, on hill, in dale,
Listen'd with wonder mute !"
" O cease !" exclaim'd Dame Gurton straight,
" Has my poor puss been torn away ?
Alas ! how cruel is my fate,
How shall I pass the tedious day ?
Where can her mourning mistress find
So sweet a cat? so meek, so kind !
So keen a mouser, such a beauty,
So orderly, so fond, so true,
That every gentle task of duty
The dear domestic creature knew !
Hers was the mildest tenderest heart !
She knew no little cattish art ;
Not cross, like favourite cats, was she,
But seem'd the queen of cats to be !
I cannot live — since doom'd, alas ! to part
From poor grimalkin kind, the darling of my
heart !"
And now Dame Gurton, bathed in teal's,
With a black top-knot vast appears:
Some say that a black gown she wore,
As many oft have done before,
For beings valued less, I ween,
Than this of taby cats the favourite queen !
But, lo ! soon after, one fair day,
Puss, who had only been a roving,
Across the pent-house took her way
To see her dame, so sad and loving ;
Eager to greet the mourning fair,
She enter'd by a window, where
A china bowl of luscious cream
Was quivering in the sunny beam.
Puss, who was somewhat tired and dry.
And somewhat fond of be v 'rage sweet,
Beholding such a tempting treat,
Resolved its depth to try.
She saw the warm and dazzling ray
Upon the spotless surface play ;
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116 MRS.
She purr'd around its circle wide,
And gazed, and long'd, and mew'd, and sigh'd !
But fate, unfriendly, did that hour control,
She overset the cream, and smash'd the gilded
howl!
As Mistress Gorton heard the thief,
She started from her easy chair,
lnd, quite unmindful of her grief,
Began aloud to swear !
" Curse that voracious beast !" she cried,
" Here, Susan, bring a cord —
I'll hang the vicious, ugly creature-*
The veriest plague e'er form'd by nature !"
And Mistress Gurton kept her word—
And poor grimalkin— died !
Thus often we with anguish sore
The dead in clamorous grief deplore ;
Who, were they once alive again,
Would meet the sting of cold disdain !
For friends, whom trifling faults can sever,
Are valued most— when lost for ever !
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
I have no home, no rich array,
No spicy feast, no downy bed!
I with the dogs am doom'd to eat,
To perish in the peopled street,
To drink the tear of deep despair,
The scoff and scorn of fools to bear !
I sleep upon the pavement stone,
Or pace the meadows, wild— -alone !
And if I curse my fate severe
Some christian savage mocks my tear !
THE LASCAR.
IN TWO PARTS.
" Another day, ah ! me, a day
Of dreary sorrow is begun !
And still I loathe the temper'd ray,
And still I hate the sickly sun !
Far from my native Indian shore,
I hear our wretched rase deplore ;
I mark the smile of taunting scorn,
And curse the hourwhen I was born !
I weep, but no one gently tries
To stop my tear, or check my sighs ;
For while my heart beats mournfully,
Dear Indian home, I sigh for thee !
" Since, gaudy sun ! I see no more
Thy hottest glory gild the day ;
Since, sever' d from my burning shore,
I waste the vapid hours away ;
O! darkness come ! come deepest gloom ;
Shroud the young summer's opening bloom !
Burn, temper'd orb, with fiercer beams
This northern world ! and drink the streams
That through the fertile valleys glide
To bathe the feasted fiends of pride !
Or hence, broad sun ! extinguish'd be !
For endless night encircles me !
" What is to me the city gay?
And what the board profusely spread ?
" Shut out the sun, O ! pitying night !
Make the wide world my silent tomb !
O'ershade this northern, sickly light,
And shroud me in eternal gloom !
My Indian plains now smiling glow,
There stands my parent's hovel low,
And there the towering aloes rise,
And fling their perfumes to the skies !
There the broad palm trees eovert lend,
There sun and shade delicious blend ;
But here, amid the blunted ray,
Cold shadows hourly cross my way.
" Was it for this, that on the main
I met the tempest fierce and strong,
And steering o'er the liquid plain,
Still onward, press'd the waves among?
Was it for this the Lascar brave
Toil'd like a wretched Indian slave ;
Preserved your treasures by his toil,
And sigh'd to greet this fertile soil ?
Was it for this, to beg, to die !
Where plenty smiles, and where the sky
Sheds cooling airs ; while feverish pain
Maddens the famish'd Lascar's brain?
" Oft I the stately camel led,
And sung the short-hour'd night away ;
And oft, upon the top-mast's head,'
Hail'd the red eye of coming day.
The Tanyan's back my mother bore ;
And oft the wavy Ganges roar
Lull'd her to rest, as on she pass'd,
'Mid the hot sands and burning blast !
And oft beneath the Banyan tree
She sate and fondly nourish'd me ;
And while the noontide hour pass'd slow
I felt her breast with kindness glow.
" Where'er I turn my sleepless eyes
No cheek so dark as mine I see ,
For Europe's suns with softer dyes
fr Mark Europe's favour'd progeny !
Low is my stature, black my hair,
The emblem of my soul's despair !
My voice no dulcet cadence flings,
To touch Soft pity's throbbing strings ;
Then wherefore, cruel Briton, say,
Compel my aching heart to stay ?
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To-morrow* • sun may rise to see
The famish'd Lascar bless'd as thee !
The morn had scarcely shed its rays,
When from the city's din he ran ;
For he had fasted four long days,
And faint his pilgrimage began !
The Lascar now, without a friend,
Up the steep hill did slow ascend ;
Now o'er the flowery meadows stole,
While pain and hunger pinch' d his soul ;
And now his feverish lip was dried,
And burning tears his thirst supplied,
And ere he saw the evening close,
Far off, the city dimly rose.
Again the summer sun flamed high,
The plains were golden far and wide ;
And fervid was the cloudless sky,
And slow the breezes seem'd to glide :
The gossamer, on briar and spray,
Shone silvery in the solar ray ;
And sparkling dew-drops, falling round,
Spangled the hot and thirsty ground ;
The insect myriads humm'd their tune
To greet the coming hour of noon,
While the poor Lascar boy, in haste,
Flew, frantic, o'er the sultry waste.
And whither could the wand'rer go?
Who would receive a stranger poor?
Who, when the blasts of night should blow,
Would ope to him the friendly door ?
Alone, amid the race of man,
The sad, the fearful alien ran !
None would an Indian wand'rer bless ;
None greet him with the fond caress ;
None feed him, though with hunger keen
He at the lordly gate were seen
Prostrate, and humbly forced to crave
A shelter for an Indian slave.
The noon-tide sun, now flaming wide,
No cloud its fierce beam shadow'd o'er,
But what could worse to him betide
Than begging at the proud man's door?
For closed and lofty was the gate,
And there in all the pride of state,
A surly porter turn'd the key,
A man of sullen soul was he—
His brow was fair ; but in his eye
Sat pamper'd scorn and tyranny ;
And near him a fierce mastiff stood,
Eager to bathe his fangs in blood.
The weary Lascar turn'd away,
For trembling fear his heart subdued,
And down hts cheek the tear would stray,
Though burning anguish drank his blood !
The angry mastiff snarl'd as he
Turn'd from tho house of luxury ;
TBS LASCAR.
The sultry hour was long, and high
The broad sun flamed athwart the sky-
But still a throbbing hope possess'd
The Indian wanderer's feverish breast,
When from the distant dell a sound
Of swelling music echoed round.
117
It was the church-bell's merry peal ;
And now a pleasant house he view'd :
And now his heart began to feel
As though it were not quite subdued !
No lofty dome show'd loftier state,
No pamper'd porter watch'd the gate,
No mastiff like a tyrant stood,
Eager to scatter human blood ;
Yet the poor Indian wanderer found,
E'en where Religion smiled around,
That tears had little power to speak
When trembling on a sable cheek !
With keen reproach, and menace rude,
The Lascar boy away was sent ;
And now again he seem'd subdued,
And his soul sicken'd as he went.
Now on the river's bank he stood ;
Now drank the cool refreshing flood ;
Again his fainting heart beat high;
Again he rais'd his languid eye;
Then from the upland's sultry side
Look'd back, forgave the wretch, and sigh'd
While the proud pastor bent his way
To preach of charity— and pray !
PART SECOND.
The Lascar boy still journey 'd on,
For the hot sun he well could bear,
And now the burning hour was gone,
And Evening came, with softer air.
The breezes kiss'd his sable breast,
While his scorch'd feet the cold dew press'd ;
The waving flowers soft tears display'd,
And songs of rapture fill'd the glade ;
The south wind quiver' d o'er the stream,
Reflecting back the rosy beam ;
While as the purpling twilight closed,
On a turf bed— the boy reposed.
And now, in fancy's airy dream,
The Lascar boy his mother spied ;
And from her breast a crimson stream
Slow trickled down her beating side :
And now he heard her, wild, complain,
As loud she shriek'd— but shriek'd in vain !
And now she sunk upon the ground,
The red stream trickling from her wound ;
And near her feet a murderer stood,
His glittering poniard tipp'd with blood !
And now, " farewell, my son !" she cried,
Then closed her fainting eyes— and died !
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118 MRS. ROBINSON'S
The Indian wanderer, waking, gazed,
With grief, and pain, and horror, wild;
And though his feverish brain was crazed,
He raized his eyes to heaven and smiled :
And now the stars were twinkling clear,
And the blind bat was whirling near
And the lone owlet shriek' d, while he
Still sate beneath a sheltering tree ; ,
And now the fierce-toned midnight blast
Across the wide heath howling pass'd,
When a long cavalcade he spied
By torch-light near the river's side.
He rose, and hastening swiftly on,
Call'd loudly to the sumptuous train,
But soon the cavalcade was gone,
And darkness wrapp'd the scene again.
He follow'd still the distant sound ;
He saw the lightning flashing round ;
He heard the crashing thunder roar ;
He felt the whelming torrents pour ;
And now, beneath a sheltering wood,
He listened to the tumbling flood—
And now, with faltering, feeble breath,
The famish'd Lascar pray'd for death.
And now the flood began to rise,
And foaming rush'd along the vale ;
The Lascar watch'd, with stedfast eyes,
The flash descending quick and pale ;
And now again the cavalcade
Pass'd slowly near the upland glade ;
But he was dark, and dark the scene,
The torches long extinct had been ;
He call'd, but in the stormy hour
His feeble voice had lost its power,
Till, near a tree, beside the flood,
A night-bewilder' d traveller stood.
The Lascar now with transport ran,
" Stop! stop!" he cried, with acc<
bold;
The traveller was a fearful man,
And next his life he prized his gold.
He heard the wanderer madly cry ;
He heard his footsteps following nigh ;
He nothing saw, while onward prest,
Black as the sky the Indian's breast,
Till his firm grasp he felt ; while cold
Down his pale cheek the big drop roll'd ;
Then, struggling to be free, he gave
A deep wound to the Lascar slave.
And now he groan'd, by pain oppress'd,
And now crept onward, sad and slow :
And while he held his bleeding breast
He feebly pour'd the plaint of wo :
" What have I done !" the Lascar cried,
" That Heaven to me the power denied
To touch the soul of man, and share
A brother's love, a brother's care ?
POEMS.
Why is this dingy form decreed
To bear oppression's scourge and bleed ?
Is there a God in yon dark heaven,
And shall such monsters be forgiven.
" Here, in this smiling land we find
Neglect and misery sting our race ;
And still, whate'er the Lascar's mind,
The stamp of sorrow marks his face !"
He ceased to speak ; while from his side
Fast roll'd life's sweetly-ebbing tide,
And now, though sick and faint was he,
He slowly climb' d a tall elm tree,
To watch if near his lonely way
Some friendly cottage lent a ray,
A little ray of cheerful light,
To gild the Lascar's long, long night !
And now he hears a distant bell,
His heart is almost rent with joy '
And who but such a wretch can tell
The transports of the Indian boy?
And higher now he climbs the tree,
And hopes some sheltering cot to see
Again he listens, while the peal
Seems up the woodland vale to steal ;
The twinkling stars begin to fade,
And dawnlight purples o'er the glade ;
And while the severing vapours flee
The Lascar boy looks cheerfully.
And now the sun begins to rise
Above the eastern summit blue ;
And o'er the plain the day-breeze flies,
, And sweetly bloom the fields of dew.
The wandering wretch was chill'd, for he
Sate shivering in the tall elm tree ;
And he was faint, and sick, and dry,
And bloodshot was his feverish eye ;
And livid was his lip, while he
Sate silent in the tall elm tree,
And parch'd his tongue, and quick his breath,
And his dark cheek was cold as death !
And now a cottage low he sees,
The chimney smoke, ascending grey,
Floats lightly on the morning breeze
And o'er the mountain glides away.
And now the lark, on fluttering wings,
Its early song, delighted, sings;
And now, across the upland mead,
The swains their flocks to shelter lead ;
The sheltering woods wave to and fro ;
The yellow plains far distant glow ;
And all things wake to life and joy,
All ! but the famish'd Indian boy !
And now the village throngs are seen,
Each lane is peopled, and the glen
From every opening path- way green
Sends forth the busy hum of men.
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THE SHEPHERD'S DOG.
They cross the meads, still, all alone,
They hear the wounded Lascar groan !
Far off they mark the wretch, as he
Falls, senseless, from the tall elm tree !
Swiftly they cross the river wide,
And soon they reach the elm tree's side ;
But ere the sufferer they behold,
His wither'd heart is dead— and cold !
119
THE
SHEPHERD'S DOG.
A shepherd's dog there was ; and he
Was faithful to his master's will,
For well he loved his company
Along the plain or up the hill j
All seasons were to him the same,
Beneath the sun's meridian flame ;
Or when the wintry wind blew shrill and keen,
Still the old shepherd's dog was with his master
seen.
H is form was shaggy clothed ; yet he
Was of a bold and faithful breed,
And kept his master company
In smiling days, and days of need ;
When the long evening slowly closed,
When every living thing reposed,
"When e'en the breeze slept on the woodlands
round, [found.
The shepherd's watchful dog was ever waking
All night upon the cold turf he
Contented lay, with listening care ;
And though no stranger company,
Or lonely traveller rested there,
Old Trim was pleased to guard it still ;
For 'twas his aged master's will:
And so pass'd on the cheerful night and day,
'Till the poor shepherd's dog was very old and
grey.
Imong the villagers was he
Beloved by all the young and old ;
For he was cheerful company
When the north wind blew keen and cold :
And when the cottage scarce was warm,
While round it flew the midnight storm,
When loudly, fiercely roll'd the swelling tide—
The shepherd's faithful dog crept closely by his
side.
When spring in gaudy dress would be
Sporting across the meadows green,
He kept his master company,
And all amid the flowers was seen ;
Now barking loud, now pacing fast,
Now backward he a look would cast,
And now, subdued and weak with frolic play,
Amid the waving grass the shepherd's dog would
stay.
Now, up the rugged path would he
The steep hill's summit slowly gain,
And still be cheerful company,
Though shivering in the pelting rain ;
And when the brook was frozen o'er,
Or the deep snow conceal' d the moor,
When the pale moon-beams scarcely shed a ray,
The shepherd's faithful dog would mark the
dangerous way.
On Sunday, at the old yew tree,
Which canopies the church-yard stile,
Forced from his master's company,
The faithful Trim would mope awhile ;
For then his master's only care
Was the loud psalm, or fervent prayer ;
And, 'till the throng the church-yard path retrod,
The shepherd's patient guard lay silent on the
6od.
Near their small hovel stood a tree,
Where Trim was every morning found —
Waiting his master's company,
And looking wistfully around ;
And if, along the upland mead,
He heard him tune the merry reed,
O then! o'er hedge and ditch, through brake
and briar
The shepherd's dog would haste, with eyes that
seem'd on fire.
And now he paced the valley free,
And now he bounded o'er the dew,
For well his master's company
Would recompense his toil he knew ;
And where a rippling rill was seen
Flashing the woody brakes between,
Fearless of danger, through the lucid tide
The shepherd's eager dog, yelping with joy,
would glide.
Full many a year the same was he,
His love still stronger every day,
For in his master's company
He had grown old, and very grey ;
And now his sight grew dim ; and slow
Up the rough mountain he would go,
And his loud bark, which all the village knew,
With every wasting hour, more faint and peevish
grew.
One morn to the low mead went he,
Roused from his threshold-bed, to meet
A gay and lordly company !—
The sun was bright, the air was sweet ;
Old Trim was watchful of his care,
His master' 3 flocks were feeding there ;
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120
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Ani, fearful of the hounds, he yelping stood
Beneath a willow tree, that waved across the
flood.
Old Trim was urged to wrath, for he
Was guardian of the meadow hounds ;
And, heedless of the company,
With angry snarl attack' d the hounds !
Some felt his teeth, though they were old,
For still his ire was fierce and bold ;
And ne'er did valiant chieftain feel more strong
Than the old shepherd's dog, when daring foes
among.
The sun was setting o'er the sea,
The breezes murmuring sad and slow.
When a gay lordly company
Came to the shepherd's hovel low ;
Their arm'd associates stood around
The sheep-cote fence's narrow bound,
While its poor master heard, with fix'd despair,
That Trim, his friend, deem'd mad, was doom'd
to perish there !
The kind old shepherd wept, for he
Had no such guide to mark his way,
And, kneeling, pray'd the company
To let him live his little day !
"For many a day my dog has been
The only friend these eyes have seen ;
We both are old and feeble, he and 1—
Together we have lived, together let us die !
" Behold his dim, yet speaking eye,
Which ill befits his visage grim ;
He cannot from your anger fly,
For slow and feeble is old Trim !
He looks as though he fain would speak,—
His beard is white — his voice is weak—
He is not mad ! O ! then in pity spare [care !"
The only watchful friend of my small fleecy
The shepherd ceased to speak, for he
Lean'd on his maple staff subdued;
While pity touch'd the company,
And all poor Trim with sorrow view'd :
Nine days upon a willow bed
Old Trim was doom'd to lay his head,
Oppress'd and sevcr'd from his master's door,
Enough to make him mad— were he not so be-
fore.
But not forsaken yet was he,
For every morn, at peep of day,
To keep his old friend company
The lonely shepherd bent his way :
A little boat across the stream,
Which glitter'd in the sunny beam,
Bore him, where foes no longer could annoy,
Whore Trim stood yelping loud, and almost
mad with joy !
Six days had pass'd, and still was he
Upon the island left to roam,
When on the stream a wither' d tr«e
Was gliding rapid 'midst the foam !
The little boat now onward prest,
Danced o'er the river's bounding breast,
Till dash'd impetuous 'gainst the old tree's side,
The shepherd plunged and groan'd, then sunk
amid the tide.
Old Trim, now doom'd his friend to see
Beating the foam with wasted breath,
Resolved to bear him company
Even in the icy arms of death:
Soon with exulting cries he bore
His feeble master to the shore,
And, standing o'er him, howl'd in cadence sad,
For fear and fondness now, had nearly made
him mad.
Together still their flocks they tend,
More happy than the proudly great ;
The shepherd has no other friend-
No lordly home, r?o bed of state !
But on a pallet, clean and low,
They hear unmoved the wild winds blow ;
And though they ne'er another spring may see,
The shepherd and his dog are cheerful company.
DEBORAH'S PARROT-
A VILLAGE TALE.
'Twas in a little western town
An ancient maiden dwelt :
Her name was Miss, or Mistress, Brown,
Or Deborah, or Debby : she
Was doom'd a spinster pure to be,
For soft delights her breast ne'er felt :
Yet, she had watchful ears and eyes
For every youthful neighbour,
And never did she cease to labour
A tripping female to- surprize.
And why was she so wondrous pure,
So stiff, so solemn — so demure?
Why did she watch with so much care
The roving youth, the wandering fair?
The tatler, Fame, has said that she
A spinster's life had long detested,
But 'twas her quiet destiny
Never to be molested ! —
And had Miss Debby's form been graced,
Fame adds,— she had not been so chaste ;-
But since for frailty she would roam,
She ne'er was taught— to look at home.
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DEBORAH'S
Miss Debby was of mien demure,
Ami blush'd like any maid !
She could not saucy man endure,
Lest she should be betray'd !
She never fail'd at dance or fair
To watch the wily lurcher's snare ;
At church she was a model godly !
Though sometimes she had different eyes
Than those uplifted to the skies,
Leering most oddly !
And Scandal, ever busy, thought
She rarely practised— what she taught.
Her dress was always stiff brocade,
With laces broad and dear j
Fine cobwebs ! that would thinly shade
Her shrivell'd cheek of sallow hue,
While, like a spider, her keen eye,
Which never shed soft pity's tear,
Small holes in others geer could spy,
And microscopic follies prying view.
And sorely vex'd was every simple thing
That wander'd near her never-tiring sting !
Miss Debby had a parrot, who,
If Fame speaks true,
Could prate, and tell what neighbours did,
And yet the saucy rogue was never chid !
Sometimes he talk'd of roving spouses
Who wander'd from their quiet houses :
Sometimes he call'd a spinster pure
By names that virtue can't endure !
And sometimes told an ancient dame
Such tales as made her blush with shame !
Then gabbled how a giddy miss
Would give the boisterous squire a kiss !
But chiefly he was taught to cry,
" Who with the parson toy'd? O fie !"
This little joke Miss Debby taught him,
To vex $ young and pretty neighbour ;
But by her scandal-zealous labour
To shame she brought him !
For the old parrot, like his teacher,
Was but a false and canting preacher,
And many a gamesome pair had sworn
Such lessons were not to be borne.
At last, Miss Debby sore was flouted,
And by her angry neighbours scouted ;
She never knew one hour of rest,—
Of every saucy boor the jest :
The young despised her, and the sage
Look'd back on Time's impartial page :
They knew that youth was given to prove
The season of ecstatic joy,
That none but cynics would destroy
The early buds of love.
They also knew that Debby sigh'd
For charms that envious Time denied ;
PARROT. 121
That she was vex'd with jealous spleen
That Hymen pass'd her by, unseen.
For though the spinster's wealth was
known,
Gold will not purchase love— alone.
She and her parrot now were tfeought
The torments of their little sphere :
He, because mischievously taught,
And she, because a maid austere ! —
In short, she deem'd it wise to leave
A place, where none remain'd to grieve.
Soon, to a distant town removed,
Miss Debby's geld a husband brought ;
And all she had her parrot taught
(Her parrot now no more beloved)
Was quite forgotten. But, alas!
As Fate would have it come to pass,
Her spouse was given to jealous rage j
For, both in person and in age,
He was the partner of his love,
Ordain'd her second self to prove I
One day, old Jenkins had been out
With merry friends to dines
And, freely talking, had no doubt
Been also free with wine.
One said, of all the wanton gay
In the whole parish, search it round,
None like the parson could be found,
Where a frail maid was in the way.
Another thought the parson sure
To win the heart of maid or wife ;
And would have freely pledged his life
That, young or old, or rich or poor,
None could defy
The magic of his roving eye !
Jenkins went home, but all the night
He dream'd of this strange tale I
Yet bless'd his stars, with proud delight,
His partner was not young, nor frail.
Next morning, at the breakfast table,
The parrot, loud as he was able,
Was heard repeatedly to cry,
" Who with the parson toy'd? O fie !"
Old Jenkins listen'd, and gtew pale, ~
The parrot then more loudly scream'd;
And Mistress Jenkins heard the tale,
And much alarm'd she seem'd !
Trembling, she tried to stop his breath,
Her lips and cheek as pale as death !
The more she trembled, still the more
Old Jenkins view'd her o'er and o'er :
And now her yellow cheek was spread
With blushes of the deepest red.
And now again the parrot's tale
Made his old tutoress doubly pale ;
Q
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122
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
For cowardice and guilt, they say,
Are the twin brothers of the soul :
So Mistress Jenkins her dismay
Could not control !
While the accuser, now grown bold,
Thrice o'er the tale of mischief told.
Now Jenkins from the table rose,
" Who with the parson toy'd?" he cried.
" So, Mistress Frailty, you must play
And sport your wanton hours away.
And with your gold, a pretty joke,
You thought to buy a pleasant cloak,
A screen to hide your shame— but know
I will not blind to ruin go.—
I am no modern spouse, d'ye see,
Gold will not gild disgrace, with me !"
Some say he seized his fearful bride,
And came to blows !
Day after day the contest dire
Augmented, with resistless ire !
And many a drubbing Debby bought
For mischief she her parrot taught !
Thus, slander turns against its maker :
And if this little story reaches
A spinster who her parrot teaches,
Let her a better task pursue,
And here the certain vengeance view
Which surely will, in time, o'ertake her.
THE MURDERED MAID.
High on the solitude of Alpii\e hills,
O'er-topping the grand imag'ry of nature,
Where one eternal winter seems to reign,
A hermit's threshold, carpeted with moss,
I Diversified the scene. Above the flakes
Of silvery snow, full many a modest flower,
Peep'd through its icy veil, and blushing oped
Its variegated hues ; the orchis sweet,
The bloomy cistus, and the fragrant branch
Of glossy myrtle. In his rushy cell
The lonely anchoret consumed his days,
Unnoticed and unblest. In early youth,
Cross'd in the fond affections of his soul
By false ambition, from his parent home
He solitary wander'd ; while the maid,
Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart
Pined in monastic horrors ! Near his sill
A little cross he rear'd, where prostrate low,
At day's pale glimpse, or when the setting sun
Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,
His orisons he pour'd, for her whose hours
Were wasted in oblivion. Winters pass'd,
And summers faded, slow, uncheerly all
To the lone hermit's sorrows : for still love
A dark, though unpolluted, altar rear'd
On the white waste of wonders !
From the peak
Which mark'd his neighbouring hut, his humid
eye
Oft wander'd o'er the rich expanse below ;
Oft traced the glow of vegetating spring
The full-blown summer splendours, and the hue
Of tawny scenes autumnal : vineyards vast
Clothing the upland scene, and spreading wide
The promised tide nectareous ; while for him
The liquid lapse of the slow brook was seen
Flashing amid the trees its silvery wave !
Far distant the blue mist of waters rose,
Veiling the ridgy outline, faintly grey,
Blended with clouds, and shutting out the sun.
The seasons still revolved, and still was he
By all forgotten, save by her, whose breast
Sigh'd in responsive sadness to the gale
That swept her prison turrets. Five long years
Had seen his graces wither, ere his spring
Of life was wasted. From the social scenes
Of human energy an alien driven,
He almost had forgot the face of man. —
No voice had met his ear, save when perchance
The pilgrim wanderer, or the goat herd swain,
Bewilder'd in the starless midnight hour,
Implored the hermit's aid, the hermit's prayers ;
And nothing loath, by pity or by prayer
Was he to save the wretched. On the top
Of his low rushy dome, a tinkling bell
Oft told the weary traveller to approach
Fearless of danger. The small silver sound
In quick vibrations echo'd down the dell
To the dim valleys quiet, while the breeze
Slept on the glassy Leman. Thus he past
His melancholy days, an alien man
From all the joys of social intercourse,
Alone, unpitied, by the world forgot !
His scrip each morning bore the day's repast
Gather'd on summits mingling with the clouds,
From whose bleak altitude the eye look'd down,
While fast the giddy brain was rock'd by fear.
Oft would he start from visionary rest,
When roaming wolves their midnight chorus
howl'd,
Or blasts tremendous shatter' d the white cliffs,
While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,
Plunged to the dell below. Oft would he sit
In silent sadness on the jutting block
Of snow-encrusted ice, and shuddering mark
(Amid the wonders of the frozen world)
Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,
Hang o'er his hovel, terribly sublime.
And oft, when summer breath'd ambrosial gales,
Soft sailing o'er the waste of printless dew
Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze
Traced the swift storm advancing, whose broad
wing
Blacken'd the rushy dome of his low hut j
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THE MURDERED
While the pale lightning smote the pathless top
Of towering Ceni*, scattering high and wide
A mist of fleecy snow. Then would he hear
(While Memory brought to view his happier
days)
The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forth
From its thaw'd prison, sweep the shaggy cliff
Vast and stupendous ! strengthening as it fell,
And delving, 'mid the snow, a cavern rude.
MAID.
So lived the hermit, like a hardy tree
Placed on a mountain's solitary brow,
And destined, through the seasons, to endure
Their wondrous changes. To behold the face
Of ever- varying Nature, and to mark
In each grand lineament the work of God !
And happier he, in total solitude,
Than the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent
soul
That God 'has nobly organized, but taught,
For purposes unknown, to bear the scourge
Of sharp adversity and vulgar pride.
Happier, oh ! happier far, than those who feel,
Yet live amongst the unfeeling ! feeding still
The throbbing heart with anguish or with
scorn.
One dreary night, when winter's icy breath
Half petrified the scene, when not a star
Gleam 'd o'er the bleak infinity of space,
Sudden the hermit started from his couch
With painful agitation. On his cheek
The blanch 'd interpreter of horror mute
Sat terribly impressive ! In his breast
The ruddy fount of life convulsive flow'd,
And his broad eyes/fix'd motionless as death,
Gazed vacantly aghast ! His feeble lamp
Was wasting rapidly ; the biting gale
Pierced the thin texture of his narrow cell ;
And silence, like a fearful sentinel
Marking the peril which awaited near,
Conspired with sullen night to wrap the scene
In tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose, and thrice
His feet recoil'd ; and still the livid flame
Lengthen'd and quiver'd as the moaning wind
Pass'd through the rushy crevice, while his heart
Beat, like the death-watch, in his shuddering
breast.
Like the pale image of Despair he sat,
The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,
When a deep groan assail'd his startled ear,
And roused him into action. To the sill
Of his low hovel he rush'd forth, (for fear
Will sometimes take the shape of fortitude,
And force men into bravery,) and soon
The wicker bolt unfasten'd. The swift blast
Now unrestrain'd, flew by ; and in its course
The quivering lamp extinguished, and again
His soul was thrill'd with terror. On he went,
123
Even to the snow-fringed margin of the crag,
Which to his citadel a platform made,
Slippery and perilous. 'Twas darkness, all !
All solitary gloom !^-The concave vast
Of heaven frown'd chaos; for all varied things
Of air, and earth, and waters blended, lost
Their forms in blank oblivion ! Yet not long
Did Nature wear her sable panoply :
For, while the hermit listen'd, from below
A stream of light ascended, spreading round
A partial view of trackless solitudes ;
And mingling voices seem'd, with busy hum,
To break the spell of horrors. Down the steep
The hermit hasten'd, when a shriek of death
Re-echoed to the valley. As he flew,
(The treacherous pathway yielding to his speed,)
Half hoping, half despairing, to the scene
Of wonder-waking anguish, suddenly
The torches were extinct, and second night
Came doubly hideous ; while the hollow tongues
Of cavern'd winds, with melancholy sound,
Increased the hermit's fears. Four freezing
hours
He watch'd and pray 'd: v and now the glim-
mering dawn
Peer'd on the eastern summits ; (the blue light
Shedding cold lustre on the colder brows
Of Alpine deserts ;) while the filmy wing
Of weeping twilight 6Wept the naked plains
Of the Lombardian landscape.
On his knees
The anchoret bless-'d Heaven, that he had 'scaped
The many perilous and fearful falls
Of waters wild and foamy, tumbling fast
From the shagg'd altitude. But, ere his prayers
Rose to their destined Heaven, another sight,
Than all preceding far more terrible,
Palsied devotion's ardour. On the snow,
Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made
By steps precipitate ; a rugged path
Down the steep frozen chasm had mark'd the ,
fate
Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form
Had toppled from the summit. Lower still
The anchoret descended, 'till arrived
At the first ridge of silvery battlements,
Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snow
On which her cheek reposed, his darling maid
Slept in the dream of death ! Frantic and wild
He clasp'd her stiffening form, and bathed with
The lilies of her bosom— icy cold— [tears
Yet beautiful and spotless.
Now, afar
The wond'ring hermit heard the clang of arms
Re-echoing from the valley : the white cliffs
Trembled as though an earthquake shook their
base
With terrible concussion ! Thundering peals
From warfare's brazen throat proclaim'd the
approach •
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124
Of conquering legion* : onward they extend
Their dauntless columns ! In the foremost group
A ruffian met the hermit's startled eyes,
Like hell's worst demon! For his murderous
hands
Were smear 'd with gore ; and on his daring
breast
A golden cross, suspended, bore the name
Of his ill-fried victim! Tohkcell
The seul-«truek exile tura'd his trembling feet,
And after three lone weeks of pain and prayer,
Shrunk from the scene of solitude— and died !
HOBIKSON'S F0EBIS.
" Yon vessel oft has plough 'd the main
With human traffic fraught ;
Its cargo— our dark sods of pain—
For worldly treasure bought !
What had they done ? O Nature tell me why
Is taunting scorn the lot of thy dark progeny ?
THE
NEGRO GIRL.
Dakt was the dawn, and o'er the deep
The boisterous whirlwinds blew ;
The sea-bird wheel' d its circling sweep,
And all was drear to view,
When on the beach that binds the western shore
The love-lorn Zelma stood, listening the tem-
pest's roar.
Her eager eyes beheld the main,
While on her Draco dear
She madly call'd, but calTd in vain,
No sound could Draco hear,
Save the shrill yelling of the fateful Mast,
While every seaman's heart quick shudder'd as
it past.
White were the billows, wide displayed
The clouds were black and low ;
The bittern shriek'd, a gliding shade
Seem'd o'er the waves to go !
The livid flash illumed the clamorous main,
While Zelma pour'd, unmark'd, her melancholy
strain.
" Be still !" she cries, " loud tempest cease !
O ! spare the gallant souk !*'
The thunder rolls— the winds increase—
The sea like mountains rolls.
While from the deck the storm-worn victims
leap,
And o'er their struggling limbs the furious bil-
lows sweep.
" O ! barbarous power ! relentless Fate !
Does Heaven's high will decree
That some should sleep on beds of state-
Some in the roaring sea ?
Some nursed in splendour deal oppression's
blow, wo !
While worth and Draco pine— in slavery and
" Thou gav'st, in thy caprice, the soul
Peculiarly enshrined ;
Nor from the ebon casket stole
The jewel of the mind !
Then wherefore let the suffering Negro's breast
Bow to his fellow man, in brighter colours drest.
" Is it the dim and glossy hoe
That marks him for despair ?
While men with blood their hands embrue,
And mock the wretch's prayer,
Shall guiltless slaves the scourge of tyrants feel,
And, e'en before their God, unheard, unpitied
kneel.
" Could the proud rulers of the land
Our sable race behold ;
Some bow'd by torture's giant hand,
And others basely sold !
Then would they pity slaves, and cry, with
shame,
Whate'er their tints may be, their souls are still
the same!
" Why seek to mock the Ethiop's face ?
Why goad our hapless kind?
Can features alienate the race-
Is there no kindred mind ?
Does not the cheek which vaunts the roseate hne
Oft blush for crimes that Ethiops never knew ?
" Behold ! the angry waves conspire
To check the barbarous toil !
While wounded Nature's vengeful ire
Roars round this trembling isle !
And hark ! her voice re-echoes in the wind-
Man was not form'd by Heaven to trample on
his kind!
" Torn from my mother's aching breast,
My tyrant sought my, love-
But in the grave shall Zelma rest,
Ere she will faithless prove ;
No, Draco !— Thy companion I will be
To that celestial realm where Negroes shall be
free!
" The tyrant white man taught my mind
The letter'd page to trace ;
He taught me in the soul to find
No tint, as in the face :
He bade my reason blossom like the tree —
But fond affection gave the ripen'd fruits t.»
thee.
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" With jealous rage he mark'd my love ;
He sent thee far away;
And prison' d in the plaintain grove
Poor Zelma pass'd the day ;
But ere the moon rose high above the main
Zelma and love contrived to break the tyrant's
chain.
« Swift, o'er the plain of burning sand
My course I bent to thee ;
And soon I reach'd the billowy strand
Which bounds the stormy sea.
Draco ! my love ! Oh yet thy Zelma's soul
Springs ardently to thee, impatient of control.
« Again the lightning flashes white
The rattling cords among !
Now by the transient vivid light,
I mark the frantic throng !
Now up the tatter'd shrouds my Draco flies,
While o'er the plunging prow the curling bil-
lows rise.
" The topmast falls— three shackled slaves
Cling to the vessel's side !
Now lost amid the maddening waves—
Now on the mast they ride-
See ! on the forecastle my Draco stands,
And now he waves his chain, now clasps his
bleeding hands.
" Why, cruel white-man ! when away
My saMe love was torn,
Why did you let poor Zelma stay,
On Artie's sands to mourn ?
No ! Zelma is not left, for she will prove
In the deep troubled main her fond— her faith-
ful love!"
The labouring ship was now a wreck,
The shrouds were fluttering wide ;
The rudder gone, the lofty deck
Was rock'd from side to side —
Poor Zelma's eyes now dropp'd their last big
tear,
While from her tawny cheek the blood recoil'd
with fear.
Now frantic, on the sands she ronm'd,
Now shrieking stopp'd to view
Where high the liquid mountains fesan'd
Around the exhausted crew—
'Till, from the deck, her Draco's well-known
form
Sprung 'mid the yawning waves, and buffetted
the storm.
Ivong on the swelling surge sustain'd,
Brave Draco sought the shore,
Watch'd the dark maid, but ne'er complain' d,
Then sunk to gaze no more I
THE DESERTED COTTAGE. 125
Poor Zelma saw him buried by the wave,
And, with her heart's true love, plunged in a
watery grave.
THE
DESERTED COTTAGE.
Who dwelt in yonder lonely cot ?
Why is it thus forsaken ?
It seems by all the world forgot,
Above its path the high grass grows,
And through its thatch the north- wind blows
— Its thatch by tempests shaken.
And yet it tops a verdant hill
By summer gales surrounded :
Beneath its door a shallow rill
Runs brawling to the vale below,
And near it sweetest flowerets grow
By banks of willow bounded.
Then why is every casement dark ?
Why looks the cot so cheerless ?
Ah ! why does ruin seem to mark
The calm retreat where love should dwell,.
And friendship teach the heart to swell
With rapture pure and fearless ?
There far above the busy crowd,
Man may repose in quiet ;
There smile that he has left the proud,
And blest with liberty, enjoy
More than Ambition's gilded toy,
Or Folly's sickening riot.
For there, the ever tranquil mind
On calm Religion resting,
May in each lonely labyrinth find
The Deity, whose boundless power
Directs the blast, or tints the flower —
No mortal foe molesting.
Stranger, yon spot was once the scene
Where Peace and Joy resided :
And oft the merry time has been
When Love and Friendship warm'd the breast,
And Freedom, making wealth a jest,
The pride of Pomp derided.
Old Jacob was the cottage lord,
His wide domain surrounding
By nature's treasure amply stored ;
He from his casement could behold
The breezy mountain tinged with gold,
The varied landscape bounding !
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126
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
The coming morn, with lustre gay,
Breath'd sweetly on his dwelling ;
The twilight veil of parting day
Stole softly o'er his quiet shed,
Hiding the mountain's misty head,
Where the night-breeze was swelling^
One lovely girl old Jacob rear'd,
And she was fair and blooming ;
She like the morning star appear'd,
Swift gliding o'er the mountain's crest,
While her blue eyes her soul confess'd,
No borrow'd rays assuming.
Twas hers the vagrant lamb to lead,
To watch the wild goat playing ;
1 o join the shepherd's tuneful reed,
And, when the sultry sun rose high,
To tend the herds, deep-lowing nigh,
Where the swift brook was straying.
One sturdy boy, a younker bold,
Ere they were doom'd to sever,
Maintain' d poor Jacob, sick and old ;
But now where yon tall poplars wave,
Pale primroses adorn the grave-
Where Jacob sleeps, for ever !
Young, in the wars, the brave boy fell !
His s.bter died of sadness !
But one remain'd their fate to tell,
For Jacob now was left alone,
And he, alas ! was helpless grown,
And pined in moody madness.
At night, by moonshine would he stray
Along the upland dreary ;
And, talking wildly all the way,
Would fancy, 'till the sun uprose,
That Heaven, in pity, mark'd the woes
Of which his soul was weary.
One morn, upon the dewy grass
Poor Jacob's sorrows ended,
The woodland's narrow winding pass
Was his last scene of lonely care,
For, gentle stranger, lifeless there
Was Jacob's form extended !
He lies beneath yon poplar tree
That tops the church- yard, sighing :
For sighing oft it secuis to be,
And as its waving leaves, around,
With morning's tears begem the ground
The zephyr trembles, flying.
And now behold yon little cot
All dreary and forsaken ;
And know, that soon 'twill be thy lot
To fall, like Jacob and his race,
And leave on Time's swift wing no trace
Which way thy course is taken.
Yet, if for truth and feeling known,
Thou still shalt be lamented :
For when thy parting sigh has flown,
Fond memory on thy grave shall give
A tear— to bid thy virtues live J
Then— smile, and be contented !
TO
AN INFANT SLEEPING.
Sweet baby boy ! tby saft cheek glows
An emblem of the living rose ;
Thy breath a zephyr seems to rise,
And placid are thy hall-closed eyes ;
And silent is thy snowy breast,
Which gently heaves in transient rest ;
And dreaming is thy infant brain
Of pleasure undisturb'd by pain.
Soon will thy youth to sorrow rise,
And tears will dim those half-closed eyes ;
And storms shall fade that living rose,
And keen unkindness wound repose.
Soon will thy slumbers painful be,
And thou wilt watch and weep— like me!
And thou wilt shrink with fear aghast
From wild Misfortune's chilling blast.
Ah ! then no more in balmy sleep
Shall memory fond her garland steep ;
No more shall visions sweetly gay
Sport in the coming beams of day;
No more thy downy pillow be
A pillow, boy, of down for thee !
For many a thorn shall ruthless care
In envious rancour scatter there !
Sweet baby boy ! then sleep awhile,
For youth will never wake to smile ;
Time flings its poisons round the bed
Where manhood lays his weary head ;
The summer day of life will lower
As long, poor boy, as winter's hour,
Unless the goddess Fortune brings
The magic of her golden wings !
A MADRIGAL.
Oh ! sad and watchful waits the lover
Whose fate depends upon a smile,
Who counts the weary minutes over,
* And chides his fluttering heart the while.
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Oh ! proud and maddening is the pleasure
When to my sight thy form appears,
Array'd in Nature's winning treasure
Of blushing hopes and graceful fears.
Then, rose ofbeauty, haste and cfteer me,
With lips like rubies come and smile ;
Ah ! trust my faith, and do not fear me,
I love too fondly to beguile !
The false and cunning may allure thee,
And win thee only to betray ;
I would not, lady, so secure thee,
Nor win thy favour for a day.
Then come and bless me, Nature's treasure !
Oh ! come and bid my sorrows fly ;
Instruct my heart to throb with pleasure,
Or bid me cease to hope— and die !
Ah ! rose ofbeauty, since thy lover
For thee a thousand lives would give,
One grateful thought at least discover,
One little sigh to bid him— live :
t TO THE WANDERER, &c
TO
THE WANDERER.
Welcome ! once more, to this sad breast,
Where pain and sorrow dwell ;
Where feeling bids the quick pulse tell
How long this heart has sigh'd for rest :
Welcome, O memory, to this brain,
Which long has throbb'd with feverish pain j
For thou in every thought canst prove
That time has never flown from love.
Reproach me not, with icy scorn,
The fault was ever thine ;
For thou awhile wert pleas'd to twine
With Hope's fair flowers Affliction's thorn.
Thou by caprice and folly led,
In all my paths its influence shed,
And bade my sighing spirit prove
That weary time could menace love !
Then wonder not, if months and years,
I strove to fly from thee,
If vainly struggling to be free,
1 bathed the bonds of truth with tears !
Ah ! wonder not that others tried
To touch the deaden'd sense of pride ;
That others thought awhile to prove
How time neglected flies from love.
Then O ! forbear reproachful lays
To mingle with thy fears ;
While Hope in lovely garb appears,
With happier hours and calmer days.
127
Thrice twelve long months have taught my mind
The patient task of peace resign'd ;
And must I, * *, must I prove
That time has fail'd to vanquish love :
STANZAS TO FLORA.
Let others wreaths of roses twine,
With scented leaves of eglantine ;
Enamell'd buds and gaudy flowers,
The pride of Flora's painted bowers ;
Such common charms shall ne'er be wove
Around the brows of him I love.
Fair are their beauties for a day,
But swiftly do they fade away ;
Each pink sends forth its choicest sweet
Aurora's warm embrace to meet ;
And each inconstant breeze that blows
Steals essence from the musky rose.
Then lead me, Flora, to the vale, "
Where, shelter'd from the fickle gale, i
In modest garb, amidst the gloom,
The constant myrtle sheds perfume ;
And hid secure from prying eyes, ;
In spotless beauty'blooms and dies. 't
And should its velvet/eaves dispense
No powerful odours to the sense ;
Should no proud tints of gaudy hue
With dazzling lustre pain the view ;
Still shall its verdant boughs defy
The northern blast, and wintry sky.
Ah, Venus ! should this hand of mine
Steal from thy tree a wreath divine,
Assist me, while I fondly bind
Two hearts, by holy friendship join'd ;
Thy cherish'd branches then shall prove
Sacred to truth, as well as love.
STANZAS TO LOVE.
Tell me, Love, when I rove o'er some far dis-
tant plain, [breast?
Shall I cherish: the passion that dwells in my
Or will absence subdue the keen rigours of pain,
And the swift wing of Time bring the balsam
of rest ?
Shall the image of him I was born to adore
Inshrined in my bosom my idol still prove !
Or, seduced by caprice, shall fine feeling no more
With the incense of truth gem the altar of
Love?
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128
When I view the deep tint of the dew-dropping
rose, [^P »
Where the bee sits enamour'd its nectar to
Then, ah say ! will not memory fondly disclose
The softer vermilion that glow'd on his lip ?
Will the sun, when he rolls In his chariot of fire,
So dazzle my mind with the glare of his rays,
That my senses one moment shall cease to ad-
mire
The more perfect refulgence that beam'd in
his ray ?
When the shadows of twilight steal over the
plain,
And the nightingale pours its lorn plaint in
the grove ;
Ah ! will not the fondness that thrills through
the strain, [to™ !
Then recall to my mind his dear accents of
Then spare, thou sweet urchin, thou soother of
pain, [heart;
Oh! spare the soft picture engraved on my
As a record of love let it ever remain;
My bosom thy tablet— thy pencil a dart.
LOVE AND REASON.
Love said to Reason, " Know my power,
Nor vaunt thy pedant rules;
I can the sweetest natures sour,
And make the wisest fools.
" I bid Philosophy submit,
I make the dullest gay ;
To idiots lend a gleam of wit
Or darken Wisdom's t&t.
" I can teach proud and freezing Scorn
To feel my potent skill ;
The sternest face with smiles adorn,
The cold with rapture thrill."
" 'Tis true," indignant Reason said,
" Too much of power's thy own .
Yet 'tis where I refuse my aid,
That only thou art known.
" But Time, that conquers e'en thy art,
Bids Reason's altar burn,
And as he calms the feverish heart,
1 triumph in my turn."
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS,
The feathery tribe mope on the frozen bough,
And icy fetters hold the silent floods ;
But endless spring the poet's breast shall prove,
Whose genius kindles at the torch of Love.
For him, unfeding, blooms the fertile mind,
The current of the heart for ever flows ;
Fearless his bosom braves the wintry wind,
While through each nerve eternal summer
glows;
In vain would chilling Apathy control
The lambent fire that warms the liberal soul !
To me the limpid brook, the painted i
The crimson dawn, the twilight's purple
close;
The mirthful dance, the shepherd's tonefol reed
The musky fragrance of the opening rose,
To me, alas ! all pleasures senseless prove,
Save the sweet converse of the friend I love.
TO A FRIEND.
Cold blows the wind upon the mountain's brow ;
In murmuring cadence wave the leafless
woods ; i£
LIFE.
" What is this world T— thy school, O misery!
Oar only lesson is to learn to suffer."
Young.
Love, thou sportive fickle boy,
Source of anguish, child of joy,
Ever wounding— ever smiling,
Soothing still, and still beguiling :
What are all thy boasted treasures,
Tender sorrows, transient pleasures?
Anxious hopes, and jealous fears,
Laughing hoars and mourning years.
Fancy's balm for every wound,
Ever sought, but rarely found !
Deck'd with brightest tints at morn,
At twilight withering on a thorn ;
Like the gentle rose of spring,
Chill'd by every zephyr's wing :
Ah ! how soon its colour flies,
Blushes, trembles, falls, and dies.
What is Youth ? — a smiling sorrow,
Blithe to-day, and sad to-morrow;
Never fix'd, for ever ranging,
Laughing, weeping, doating, changing !
Wild, capricious, giddy, vain,
Cloy'd with pleasure, nursed with pain ;
• Age steals on with wintery foce,
Every rapturous hope to chase;
Like a wither'd, sapless tree,
Bow'd to chilling Fate's decree ;
Strip'd of all its foliage gay, •.
Drooping at the close of day j
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TO A FALSE FRIEND.
What of tedious life remains ?
Keen regrets and cureless pains ;
TOl death appears, a welcome friend,
To bid the scene of sorrow end.
129
TO
' I win instruct my sorrows to be proud."
Shakspeare.
'Tis past ! and now, remorseless Fate,
Thy victim braves thy direst hate,
My mind resists thy poison'd dart,
And conscious pride sustains my heart ;
Behold my placid smiles disclose,
The pang is past that seaTd my woes !
Since now, no more to grief a prey,
My tranquil hours shall glide away ;
Since Reason from my sated brain
Shall tear the records of past pain ;
Since warring passions sink to rest,
And fierce resentment leaves my breast ;
Since from the wreath fond Fancy made,
Hope's transient flowers for ever fade ;
One proud indignant tear shall prove
The signal of expiring love.
Sweet offspring of long cherish'd wo,
No more thy glittering fount shall flow;
But trembling in its azure cell,
Conceal'd in haughty silence dwell ;
Or if, perchance, one drop should steal,
The pangs of memory to reveal,
On my cold bosom shalt thou shine,
A peerless gem— on Feeling's shrine !
Now if remorse can touch thy heart,
Or gracious deeds one joy impart ;
Oh, if Reflection turns at last
To all my proud affection past,
Which shared each pang that wrung thy
breast,
And soothed thy wounded mind to rest;
"When soft-eyed Sympathy entwined
A feathery chain thy heart to bind ;
And with responsive sighs dispell'd
Each wayward passion that rebell'd :
Calming with Friendship's dulcet sounds
The anguish of dark Falsehood's wounds ;
When friends were cold, and foes severe,
And smiling Envy stung thine ear ;
Who, with meek Counsel, bade thee know
The specious garb that veil'd the foe?
And turning from thy breast his wound,
Saw, in strong spells, the mischief bound?
When Fortune, smiling on my lot, '
Illumed with joy my favoured cot ;
When sportive Love a wreath entwined,
The graces of my breast to bind;
When Youth rush'd forward to bestow
On my warm lip the ruby's glow ;
WTien Health spread rapture o'er my cheek,
That bade the blushing roses speak,
And gave my eye the spark divine-
Say, were not all these treasures thine ?
When lustrous summers deck'd my bowers,
And hung my couch with rarest flowers ;
When Plenty crown'd my little board,
With all abundant nature stored ;
When social Mirth's enlivening strain
Mock'd the dull groan of worldly pain ;
When e'en Philosophy confess'd
That Love's pure flame could warm the breast ;
WTien Wisdom listen'd as I sung,
To catch new precepts, from my tongue ;—
Say, did such trivial flatteries move
The heart enslaved by thee and love?
'Tis past ! now Reason's sober light
Steals through the gloom of mental night
Since Love's fond tale can cheat no more,
And e'en false Hope's bright dream is o'er.
Come, gentle Peace ! these eye-lids close
On some blest pallet of repose;
And thou, dear Muse, in pity give
One wreath, to bid my memory live :
Then will I smile at envious Fate's decree,
Forget my woes, myself, the world, and thee.
TO A FALSE FRIENP.
IN IMITATION OP SAPPHO.
The seasons, lover false ! are changing slow,
yl Now winter passes by on snowy wing;
Swiftly the zephyrs bid their pinions go,
Wafting the perfumed harbinger of spring !
The summer blushes as she steals away,
And short, though splendid, is her glowing day\
Then autumn comes, in tawny graces drest,
And in majestic solemn pomp retires ;
Rich are the trappings of her burning breast,
And her broad eye flames undulating fires .'
I greet thee, season ! for my ardent soul
Like thee, must own, the stormy hours control !
The spring of joy no more shall bid me see
Young budding blosloms of delightful hue !
Nor shall luxuriant summer smile for me ;
1 Nor thou, red autumn, open to my view 2
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130
MH8. HOMJLAISOK'8 POEMS.
Then come, thou season turbulent, and prove
How weak thy storm opposed to hopeless love !
In vain you fly me ! on the maddening main
Sappho shall haunt thee 'mid the whirlwind's
roar ; [strain,
Sappho shall o'er the mountains chaunt her
And echo bear it to thy distant shore !
No scene upon the world's wide space shall be
A scene of rest, ungrateful man, to thee !
When the wind howls along the forest drear,
Or faintly whispers on the curling sea,
My voice upon the dying gale to hear
Thou shalt awake— and call, in vain, on me !
And when the morning beam illumes the sky,
My faded form shall meet thy sleepless eye !
False lover ! no, upon the towering steep,
Where feme her temple rears, defying time,
Sappho shall mark unawed the bounding deep,
And meet her fate with fortitude sublime !
And while thy name to blank oblivion fades,
Sappho shall smiling seek th' Elysian shades.
„ STANZAS
JO A FRIEND.
Ah ! think no more tnat life's delusive joys
Can charm my thoughts from friendship's
dearer claim ;
Or wound a heart that scarce a wish employs,
For age to censure, or discretion blame.
Tired of the world, my weary mind recoils
From splendid scenes and transitory joys ;
From fell Ambition's false and fruitless toils,
From hope that flatters, and from bliss that
cloys.
With thee, above the taunts of empty pride,
The rigid frowns to youthful error given,
Content in solitude my griefs I'll hide,
Thy voice my counsellor, thy smiles my
Heaven.
With thee 111 hail the morn's returning ray,
Or climb the dewy mountain bleak and cold ;
On the smooth lake observe the sun-beams play,
Or mark the infant flowers their buds unfold.
Pleased will I watch the glittering queen of
night [Heaven ;
Spread her white mantle o'er the face of
And from thy converse snatch the pure delight,;
By truth sublime to mental feeling given. * .'
And as the varying seasons glide away,
This moral lesson shall my bosom learn :
How time steals on, while blissful hours decay
Like fleeting shadows— never to return!
And when I see thy warm unspotted mind
Torn with the wound of broken friendship's
dart ; [kind,
When sickness chills thy breast with pangs un-
Or ruthless sorrow preys upon thy heart;
The task be mine to soothe thee to repose,
To check the sigh, and stay the trickling tear,
Or with soft sympathy to share thy woes ;—
O proudest rapture of the soul sincere !
And ye who flutter through the vacant hour,
Where tasteless Apathy's empoison'd wand
Arrests the vagrant sense with numbing power,
While vanquished Reason bows at her com
mand;
O say, what bliss can transient life bestow,
What balm so grateful to the social mind
As Friendship's voice— where gentle precepts
flow
From the blest source of sentiment refined?
When Fate's stern hand shall close my weeping
eye, [doom ;
And seal, at length, my wandering spirit's
Oh! may kind Friendship catch xny parting
sigh,
And cheer with hope the terrors of the tomb !
STANZAS.
When fragrant gales and summer showers
CaJl'd forth the sweetly scented flowers ;
' When ripen'd sheaves of golden grain
Strew' d their rich treasures o'er the plain ;
When the full grape did nectar yield,
In tepid drops of purple hue ;
When the thick grove and thirsty field.
Drank the soft shower, and bloom'd anew :
O then my joyful heart did say,
" Sure this is Nature's holy-day !"
But when the yellow leaf did fade,
And every gentle flower decay'd ;
When whistling winds and drenching rain
Swept with rude force the naked plain ;
When o'er the desolated scene
I saw the drifted snow descend,
And sadness darken'd all the green,
And Nature's triumphs seem'd to end :
O then my mourning heart did say,
" Thus youth shall vanish, life decay V
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UJTES.HPOPE'S OAK.
When Beauty blooms, and Fortune smiles,
And Wealth the easy breast beguiles;
When Pleasure from her downy wings
Her soft bewitching incense flings ;
Then friends look kind— and round the heart
The brightest flames of Passion more,
False Flattery's soothing strains impart
The warmest friendship, fondest lore :
But when capricious Fortune flies,
Then Friendship fades,— and Passion dies.
LINES
WRITTEN ON THE SEA-COAST.
Swift o'er the bounding deep the Teasel glides,
Its streamers fluttering in the summer gales,
The lofty mast the breezy air derides,
As gaily o'er the glittering surf she sails.
Now beats each gallant heart wltb innate joys,
Bright hopes and tender fears alternate vie,
Dear schemes of pure delight the mind employs,
And the soul glistens in the tearful eye.
The fond expecting maid delighted stands
On the bleak summit of yon chalky bourn,
With waving handkerchief and lifted hands
She hails her darling sailor's safe return.
Ill-fated maid, ne'er shall thy gentle breast
The chaste reward of constant passion prove ;
Ne'er shall that timid form again be press'd
In the dear bondage of unsullied love :
Stern Heaven forbids— the dark o'erwhelming
deep [sighs;
Mocks the poor pilot's skill, and braves his
O'er the high deck the frothy billows sweep,
And the fierce tempest drowns the sea-boy's
cries.
The madd'ning ocean swells with furious roar ;
See the devoted bark, the shatter'd mast !
The splitting hulk, dash'd on the rocky shore,
Rolls 'midst the howlings of the direful blast.
O'er the vex'd deep the vivid sulphur flies,
The jarring elements their clamours blend,
The deaf ning thunder roars along the skies,
And whistling winds from lurid clouds de-
scend.
The labouring wreck, contending with the wave,
Mounts to the blast, or plunges in the main ;
The trembling wretch, suspended o'er his grave,
Clings to the tatter 'd shrouds ; the pouring rain
131
Chills his sad breast :— methinks I see him weep,
I hear his fearful groan, his mutter'd prayer.
O cease to mourn ! behold the yawning deep,
Where soon thy wearv soul shall mock Des-
pair !
Yes, soon thy aching heart shall rest in peace :
For in the arms of death all human sorrows cease*
TO POPE'S OAK.
" Enough for me that to the listening swains
First in these fields I rang the sylvan strains.'
POPE.
Written under an Oak in Windsor Forest, bearing
the foil-owing Inscription :
" Here Pope first sung !" O hallo w'd tree!
Such is the boast thy bark displays ;
Thy branches, like thy patron's lays,
Shall ever, ever, sacred be ;
Nor with'ring storm nor woodman's stroke,
Shall harm the Poet's favourite Oak.
'Twas here he woo'd his Muse of fire,
While Inspiration's wondrous art,
Sublimely stealing through his heart,
Did Fancy's proudest themes inspire ;
'Twas here he wisely learnt to smile
At empty praise and courtly guile.
Retired from flattering, specious arts,
From fawning sycophants of state,
From knaves with ravaged wealth elate,
And little slaves with tyrant hearts :
In conscious freedom nobly proud,
He scorn' d the envious groveling crowd.
Though splendid domes around them rise,
And pompous titles lull to rest
Each struggling virtue in the breast,
'Till Power the place of Worth supplies ;
The wretched herd can never know
The sober joys these haunts bestow.
Does the fond muse delight to dwell,
Where freezing penance spreads its shade ?
Where scarce the sun's warm beams pervade
The hoary Hermit's dreary cell?
Ah ! no — there Superstition blind
With torpid langour chills the mind.
Or does she seek life's busy scene,
Ah ! no, the sordid mean and proud,
The little, trifling, fluttering crowd,
Can never taste her bliss serene ;
She flies from Fashion's tinsel toys,
Nor courts her smile, nor shares her joys.
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1S2
MRS. ROBINSON'S FORMS.
Nor can the dull pedantic mind
E'er boast her bright creative fires;
Above constraint her wing aspires,
Nor rigid spells her flight can bind ;
The narrow track of musty schools
She leaves to plodding vapid fools.
To scenes like these she bends her way,
Here the best feelings of the soul
Nor interest taints, nor threats control,
Nor vice allures, nor snares betray ;
Here, from each trivial hope removed,
Our bard first sought the Muse he loved.
Still shall thy pensive gloom diffuse
The verse sublime, the dulcet song ;
While round the poet's seat shall throng
Each rapture sacred to the Muse j
Still shall thy verdant branches be
The bower of wondrous minstrelsy.
When glow-worms light their little fires,
The amorous swain and timid maid
Shall sit and talk beneath thy shade,
As eve's last rosy tint expires ;
While on thy boughs the plaintive dove
Shall learn from them the tale of love.
When round the quivering moon-beams play,
And fairies form the grassy ring,
'Till the shrill lark unfurls his wing,
And soars to greet the blushing day,
The nightingale shall pour to thee
Her song of love-lorn melody.
When through the forest dark and drear
Full oft, as ancient stories say,
Old Heme the hunter* loves to stray,
While village-damsels quake with fear ;
Nor sprite or spectre shall invade
The deep repose that marks thy shade.
Blest oak! thy mossy trunk shall be
As lasting as the laurel's bloom
That decks immortal Virgil's tomb,
And famed as Shakspeare's hallow'd tree ;
For every grateful Muse shall twine
A votive wreath to deck thy shrine.
STANZAS
TO THE ROSE.
Sweet picture of life's chequer'd hour !
Ah, wherefore droop thy blushing head?
Tell me, oh tell me, hapless flower,
Is it because thy charms are fled?
• Shakspeare's Merry Wives of Windsor.
Come, gentle rose, and learn from me
A lesson of philosophy.
Thy scented buds life's joys disclose,
They strew our paths with magic sweets,
Where many a thorn like thine, fair rose,
Full oft the weary wanderer meets :
And when he sees thy charms depart,
He feels thy thorn within his heart.
When morn's bright torch illumed the sky,
Vainly thy flaunting buds display'd
Enamell'd leaves of crimson die,—
Ill-fated blossoms doom'd to fade :
'Tis so with beauty, hapless flower,
Its lustre blooms but for an hour.
Come, blushing rose, and on my breast
Recline thy gentle head, and die ;
Thy scatter'd leaves shall there be press'd>
Bathed with a tear from Pity's eye ;
There shall thy balmy sweets impart
An essence grateful to my heart.
Thus Sympathy, with lenient power,
Shall bid thy fading charms bestow
Soft odours for life's happy hour,
Kind healing balsam for its wo !
If such thy virtues, rose divine ! '
Oh! may thy envied fate be mine.
TO THE MYRTLE.
Unfading branch of verdant hue,
In modest sweetness drest,
Shake off thy pearly tears of dew,
And decorate my breast.
Dear emblem of the feeling mind,
Truth's consecrated tree !
Still shall thy trembling blossoms find
A faithful friend in me.
Nor chilling breeze, nor drizzling rain,
Thy glossy leaves can spoil,
Their sober beauties fresh remain
In every varying soil.
If e'er this aching heart of mine
A wandering thought should prove,
O let thy branches round it twine,
And bind it fast to love !
For, ah ! the little fluttering thing,
Amidst Life's tempest rude,
Has felt Affliction's sharpest sting,
Yet triumphs unsubdued !
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LINES.
13*
Like thee it braves the wintry wind
And mocks the storm's fierce power;
Though from its hopes the blast unkind
Had torn each promised flower.
Though round its fibres barbarous fate
Has twin'd an icy spell,
Still in its central fires elate
The purest passions dwell.
When life's disastrous scene is fled,
This humble boon X crave:
Oh ! bind your branches round my head,
And blossom on my grave !
STANZAS.
Why, if perchance thy gaze I meet,
Glows my wan cheek with crimson dye?
Why do my languid pulses beat
With quicken' d throbs when thou art nigh :
Why does my faultering language fail,
My trembling form its strength forego ;
Why do my quivering lips turn pale}
Chill'd by the touch of secret wo ?
Say, when thy tuneful voice I hear,
Why does my anguish'd bosom swell ?
Why steals the fond unbidding tear
The soul's dire agony to tell ?
Why when my feeble hand you press,
And whisper passion's transport sweet,
Why do I shun the fond caress,
And dread thy ardent flame to meet?
Ah! tis because too well I know
Love is a tyrant fickle boy ;
His smiles conceal the pangs of wo,
His dearest gift is short-lived joy.
He soars aloft on lovers' sighs ;
In breaking hearts his temple rears,
With cunning care he blinds our eyes,
Then, laughing, mocks our falling tears.
INSCRIBED TO MARIA,
MY BELOVED DAUGHTER.
The rose that hails the morning,
Array'd in all its sweets,
Its mossy couch adorning,
The sun enamour' d meets ;
Yet when the warm beam rushes
Where, hid in gloom, it lies,
O'erwhelm'd with glowing blushes,
The hapless victim dies !
Sweet maid, this rose discovers
How frail is beauty's doom,
When Flattery round it hovers
To spoil its proudest bloom.
Then shun each gaudy pleasure
That lures thee on to fade,
And guard thy beauty's treasure,
To decorate a shade !
LINES
HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM.
Thou art no more my bosom's friend ;
Here must the sweet delusion end,
That charm'd my senses many a year,
Through smiling summers, winters drear. —
O, friendship ! am I doom'd to find
Thou art a phantom of the mind ?
A glittering shade, an empty name,
An air-born vision's vaporish flame ?
And yet, the dear deceit so long
Has waked to joy my matin song,
Has bid my tears forget to flow,
Chased every pain, soothed every wo ;
That truth unwelcome to my ear,
Swells the deep sigh, recalls the tear,
Gives to the sense the keenest smart,
Checks the warm pulses of the heart,
Darkens my fate and steals away
Each gleam of joy through life's sad day.
Britain, farewell ! I quit thy shore,
My native country charms no more ;
No guide to mark the toilsome road ;
No destined clime; no fix'd abode;
Alone and sad, ordain'd to trace
The vast expanse of endless space ;
To view, upon the mountain's height,
Through varied shades of glimmering light
The distant landscape fade away
In the last gleam of parting day :
Or, on the quivering lucid stream,
To watch the pale moon's silvery beam ;
Or, when in sad and plaintive strains,
The mournful Philomel complains,
In dulcet notes bewails her fate,
And murmurs for her absent mate ;
Inspired by sympathy divine,
I'll weep her woes — for they are mine.
Driven by my fate, where'er I go
O'er burning plains, o'er hills of snow,
Or on the bosom of the wave,
The howling tempest doom'd to brave,
Where'er my lonely course I bend
Thy image shall my steps attend;
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134
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Each object I am doom'd to see
Shall bid remembrance turn to thee*
Yes ; I shall new thee in each flower,
That changes with the transient hour :
Thy wandering fancy I shall find
Borne on the wings of every wind :
Thy wild impetuous passions trace
O'er the white ware's tempestuous space :
In every changing season prove
An emblem of thy wavering love.
Torn from my country, friends, and you,
The world lies open to my view ;
New objects shall my mind engage ;
I will explore th' historic page ;
Sweet poetry shall soothe my soul ;
Philosophy each pang control :
The muse I'll seek, her lambent fire
My soul's quick senses shall inspire;
With finer nerves my heart shall beat,
Touch'd by heaven's own Promethean heat;
Italia' s gales shall bear my song*
In soft Hnk'd-notes her woods among ;
Upon the blue hills misty side,
Through trackless desarts waste and wide,
O'er craggy rocks, whose torrents flow
Upon the silver sands below.
Sweet land of melody ! 'tis thine
The softest passions to refine ;
Thy myrtle groves, thy melting strains,
Shall harmonize and soothe my pains.
Nor will I cast one thought behind
On foes relentless, friends unkind ;
I feel, I feel their poison'd dart
Pierce the life-nerve within my heart ;
* Tis mingled with the vital heat,
That bids my throbbing pulses beat ;
Soon shall that vital heat be o'er,
Those throbbing pulses beat no more !
No — I -will breathe the spicy gale ;
Plunge the clear stream, new health exhale;;
O'er my pale cheek diffuse the rose,
And drink oblivion to my woes.
PASTORAL STANZAS.
WRITTEN AT FIFTEEN YEARS OF AGE.
When Aurora's soft blushes o'erspread the blue
hill, [morn ;
And the mist dies away at the glances of
When the birds join the music that floats on the
rill,
Andlhe beauties of spring the young wood-
lands adorn ;
To breathe the pure air, and enliven my tool,
I bound from my cottage exulting and gay ;
No care to molest me, no power to control,
I sport with my lambkins, as thoughtless a
they.
Yet the bright tear of pity bedews my fond eyes,
When I think that for man the dear victims
must fall,
While nature such stores of provision supplies,
And the bounties of Heaven are common to
alL
Ah ! tell me, Reflection, why custom decreed
That the sweet feather'd songsters so slaugh-
ter'd should be?
For the board of the rich the poor minstrels may
bleed,
But the fruits of the field are sufficient for me.
When I view the proud palace, so pompously
gay, [trees ;
Whose high gilded turrets peep over the
I pity its greatness and mournfully say,
Can mortals delight in such trifles as these!
Can a pillow of down soothe the wo-stricken
mind, [pain ;
Can the sweets of Arabia calm sickness and
Can fetters of gold love's true votaries bind,
Or the gems of Peru Time's light pinions re-
strain?
Can those limbs which bow down beneath sor-
row and age,
From the floss of the silk-worm fresh vigour
receive ; [assuage ;
Can the pomp of the proud death's grim tyrant
Can it teach you to die, or instruct you to
live?
Ah no ! then sweet Peace, lovely offspring of
Heaven, [be ;
Come dwell in my cottage, thy handmaid I'll
Thus my youth shall pass on, unmolested and
even,
And the winter of age be enliven'd by thee !
rr bitten on seeing a Rose still blooming at a Cot
tage door on Egham Hill, the 25th of October,
1800.
Why dost thou linger still, sweet flower ?
Why yet remain, thy leaves to flaunt ?
This is for thee no fostering hour—
The cold wind blows,
And many a chilling, ruthless shower
Will now assail thee, beauteous rose I
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LINES. — MORNING.
135
Aronnd thee hardy trees may show
Their verdant branches later still ;
But thy soft Blushes, taught to glow
For summer' 8 day,
Must, when the wintry tempests blow,
Like Beauty's cheek, fade fast away.
Youth's glowing emblem ! wherefore stay
And waste thy balmy breath around ?
This is for thee a killing day-
Then wherefore here
Waste thy sweet life in sighs away,
Bathed with chill Winter's frozen tear ?
Thou emblemest the beauteous mind
Thrown on oblivion's gloomy scene :
Unheeded, with the wild weeds twined,
Thou here art placed—
Thou, whom by Nature's hand design'd,
Might'st Beauty's breast have proudly graced.
Sweet rose ! methinks I hear thee say—
I might have tasted Beauty's smile ;
Have bask'd beneath her blue-eye's ray,
And sank in death !
Short would have been my glowing day,
And transient pass'd my fleeting breath.
I might have bound the golden hair,
Whose folds luxuriant wave and glow
Round youth's unfurrow'd forehead fair !
But one short day
Had seen my beauties rich and rare
Droop and for ever fade away !
Here the poor hovel still displays
My lingering form, while other flowers
Long since have seen their sunny days,
And shed their sweets :
Yet here my bosom morning's rays
And morning's tear unvanqmsh'd meets.
Then happier far the lowly cot
Where Nature's modest children reign,
Than e'en ambition's loftier lot ;
For wealth and power,
la blank oblivion's gloom forgot, [hour.
Soon move but the phantoms of a summer
LINES
WRITTEN BY THE SIDE OF A RIVER.
Flow soft river, gently stray,
Still a silent waving tide
O'er thy glittering carpet glide,
While I chant my roundelay,
As 1 gather from thy bank,
Shelter'd by the poplar dank,
King-cups, deck'd in golden pride,
Harebells sweet, and " daises pied ;"
While beneath the evening sky
Soft the western breezes fly.
Gentle river, should'st thou be
Touch'd with mournful sympathy,
When reflection tells my soul
Winter's icy breath shall quell
Thy sweet bosom's graceful swell,
And thy dimpling course control ;
Should a crystal tear of mine.
Fall upon thy lucid breast,
Oh receive the trembling guest,
For 'tis Pity's drop divine !
Gentle zephyr, softly play,
Shake thy dewy wings around,
Sprinkle odours o'er the ground,
While I chant my roundelay.
While the woodbine's mingling shade
Veils my pensive, drooping head,
Fan, oh fan, the busy gale,
That rudely wantons round my cheek,
Where the tear of sufferance meek
Glitters on the lily pale :
Ah ! no more the damask rose
There in crimson lustre glows ;
Thirsty fevers from my lip
Dare the ruddy drops to sip ;
Deep within my burning heart
Sorrow plants an icy dart,
From whose point the soft tears flow,
Melting in the vivid glow ;
Gentle zephyr, should'st thou be
Touch'd with tender sympathy
When reflection calls to mind
The bleak and desolating wind
That soon thy silken foing shall tear,
And waft it on the freezing air ;
Zephyr, should a tender sigh
To thy balmy bosom fly,
Oh! receive the fluttering thing,
Place it on thy filmy wing,
Bear it to Its native sky,
For 'tis Pity's softest sigh.
O'er the golden lids of day
Steals a veil of sober grey ;
While the flowerets sink to rest
On the moist earth's glittering breast ;
Homeward now I'll bend my way,
And chant my plaintive roundelay.
MORNING.
O'er fallow plains and fertile meads
Aurora lifts the torch of day ;
The shadowy brow of night recedes,
Cold dew-drops fall from every spray j
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Now o er the thistle's rugged head
Thin veils of filmy vapour fly,
On every violet's perfumed bed
The sparkling gems of Nature lie.
The hill's tall brow is crown'd with gold,
The milk-maid trills her jocund lay,
The shepherd-boy unpens his fold,
The lambs along the meadows play ;
The pilfering lark, with speckled breast,
From the ripe sheaf s rich banquet flies;
And lifting high his plumy crest,
Soars the proud tenant of the skies.
The peasant steals with timid feet,
And gently taps the cottage door ;
Or on the green sod takes his seat,
And chants some well-known ditty
o'er ;
Waked by the strain, the blushing maid,
Unpractised in love's mazy wiles,
In clean, but homely garb array'd,
From the small casement peeps— and
smiles.
Proud chanticleer unfolds his wing,
And fluttering struts in plumage gay ;
The glades with vocal echoes ring,
Soft odours deck the hawthorn spray;
The school-boy saunters o'er the green,
With satchel fill'd with learning's store ;
While with dejected, sullen mien,
He cons his tedious lesson o'er.
When winter spreads her banner chill,
And sweeps the vale with fi-eezing
power,
And binds in spells the vagrant rill,
And shrivels every lingering flower;
When Nature quits her verdant dress,
And drops to earth her icy tears,
E'en then thy tardy glance can bless,
And soft thy weeping eye appears.
Then at the horn's enlivening peal,
Keen sportsmen for the chase prepare ;
Through the young copse shrill echoes steal.
Swift flies the timorous panting hare ;
From every straw-thatch'd cottage soars
Blue curling smoke in many a cloud ;
Around the barn's expanded doors
The feather'd throng impatient crowd.
Such are thy charms, health-breathing
scene !
Where Nature's children revel gay;
Where Plenty smiles with radiant mien,
And Labour crowns the circling day ;
Where Peace, in conscious Virtue blest,
Invites the heart to joy supreme •
While polish 'd Splendour pants for rest,
And pines in Fashion's feverish dream.
STANZAS TO TIME.
Capricious foe to human joy,
Still varying with the fleeting day ;
With thee the purest raptures cloy,
The fairest prospects fade away ;
Nor worth, nor power thy wings can bind,
All earthly pleasures fly with thee ;
Inconstant as the wavering wind
That plays upon the summer sea.
I court thee not, ungentle guest,
For I have e'er been doom'd to find
Life's gayest hours but idly drest
With sweets that pall the sick'ning mind:
When smiling Hope, with placid mien,
Around my couch did fondly play,
Too oft thy aery form I've seen,
On downy pinions glide away.
But when perplex'd with pain or care,
My couch with thorns was scattered round:
When the pale priestess of Despair
My mind in fatal spells had bound ;
When the dull hours no joy could bring,
No bliss my weary fancy prove,
I mark'd thy leaden ponderous wing,
With tardy pace, unkindly move.
If such thy gifts, O Time ! for thee
My sated heart shall ne'er repine ;
I bow content to Fate's decree,
And with thy thorns thy roses twine ;
Yet ere thy fickle reign shall end,
The balmy sweets of Friendship's hour
I'll with my cup of sorrow blend,
And smile, regardless of thy power.
THE REPLY TO TIME.
" Cannot my favouring power prolong
The lovely lesson of thy song ;
Cannot I deck thy bust with bays,
And lift thee to immortal praise?
Then check, sweet Nymph, that angry rhyme,
That wounds thy fond adorer— Time."
Oracle, March 13, 1790
O time ! forgive the mournful song
That on thy pinions stole along,
When the rude hand of pain severe
Chased down my cheek the burning tear :
When sorrow chill'd each warm desire
That kindles Fancy's lambent fire ;
When Hope, by fostering Friendship rear'd,
A phantom of the brain appear'd ;
Forgive the song, devoid of art,
That stole spontaneous from my heart;
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TO SIMPLICITY,
For when that heart shall throb no more,
And all its keen regrets be o'er,
Should kind remembrance shed one tear
To sacred friendship o'er my bier.
When the dark precincts of the tomb
Shall hide me in its deepest gloom ;
O ! shouldst thou on thy wafting wing
The sigh of gentle sorrow bring,
Or fondly deign to bear the name
Of one, alas ! unknown to fame,
Then shall my weak untutor'd rhyme
Exulting boast the gifts of Time.
But while I feel youth's vivid fire,
Fann'd by the breath of care, expire ;
While no blest ray of hope divine
O'er my chiU'd bosom deigns to shine ;
While doom'd to mark the vapid dav
In tasteless languor waste away ;
Still, still, my sad and plaintive rhyme
Must blame the ruthless power of Time.
Each infant flower of rainbow hue,
That bathes its head in morning dew,
At twilight droops ; the mountain pine,
Whose high and waving brows incline
O'er the white cataracts foamy way,
Shall at thy withering touch decay !
The craggy cliffs that proudly rise
In awful splendour 'midst the skies
Shall to the vale in fragments roll,
Obedient to thy fell control!
The loftiest fabric rear'd to fame,
The sculptured bust, the poet's name ;
The softest tint of Titian die,
The boast of magic minstrelsy;
The vows to holy friendship dear,
The sainted smile of love sincere ;
The name that warms th* emfaasion'd heart,
All that fine feeling can impart ;
The wonders of exterior grace,
The spells that bind the fairest face,
Fade in oblivion's torpid hour
The victims of thy tyrant power !
TO SIMPLICITY.
Sweet blushing nymph, who loves to dwell
In the dark forest's silent gloom ;
Who smiles within the hermit's cell,
And sighs upon the rustic's tomb ;
Who, pitying, sees the busy throng,
The slaves of fashion's giddy sway ;
Apd in a wild and artless song
Warbles the feathery hours away.
Oft have I flown thy steps to trace
In the low valley's still retreat,.
ABSENCE. 137
Oft have I view'd thy blooming fiice
In the small cottage, proudly neat :
I've seen thee veil'd in vestal lawn,
In the cold cloister's hallow'd shade ;
I've seen thee at the peep of dawn,
In simple russet garb array'd.
I've seen thee, crown'd with April flowers,
Light bounding o'er the rural mead ;
I've heard thee in sequester' d bowers r
Sing to the shepherd's pastoral reed ;
When pleasure led the nymphs along
In moonlight gambols o'er the green,
I've mark'd thee, fairest of the throng,
With modest eye and timid mien.
No more my eager gaze shall trace
Thy varying footsteps, blithe and free ;
For what art thou but native grace,
Soft Beauty's child, Simplicity !
'Tis thine in every path to dwell
Where Truth and Innocence are seen,
In cottage low, or hermit's cell,
Or splendid dome, or rural green.
The spotless mind, the brow serene,
Tis thine, enchanting maid, to boast !
The sweet, benignant, humble mien,
And all that Virtue values most !
Thy blushes paint Duncannon's* check,
Thy light hand weaves her golden hair,
Around her form, thy charms I'll seek,
For all the graces revel there !
TO ABSENCE.
When from the craggy mountain's pathless
steep,
Whose flinty brow hangs o'er the raging sea,
My wandering eye beholds the foamy deep,
I mark the restless surge— «and think of thee.
The curling waves, the passing breezes move,
Changing and treacherous as the breath of love ;
The " sad similitude" awakes my smar^
And thy dear image twines about my heart.
When at the sober hour of sinking day
Exhausted Nature steals to soft repose
When the hush'd linnet •lumbers on the spray
And scarce a zephyr fans the drooping rose ;
I glance o'er scenes of bliss to friendship dear,
And at the fond remembrance drop a tear;
Nor can the balmy incense soothe my smar^
Still cureless sorrow preys upon my heart
* Now Countess of Besborough.
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138
BURS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
When the loud gambols of the Tillage throng
Drown the lorn murmurs of the ring-dove's
throat,
I think I hear thy fascinating song
Join the melodious minstrel's tuneful note ;
My listening ear soon tells me-r'tis not thee,
Nor thy loved song, nor thy soft minstrelsy
In vain I turn away to hide my smart,
Thy dulcet numbers vibrate in my heart.
When with the sylvan train I seek the grove,
Where May's soft breath diffuses incense
round,
Where Venus smiles serene, and sportive Love
With thornless roses spreads the fairy ground ;
The voice of pleasure dies upon mine ear,
My conscious bosom sighs— Thou art not here !
Soft tears of fond regret reveal its smart,
And sorrow, restless sorrow, chills my heart.
When at my matin prayers I prostrate kneel,
And court Religion's aid to soothe my wo,
The meek-eyed saint who pities what I feel
Forbids the sigh to heave, the tear to flow ;
For ah ! no vulgar passion fills my mind,
Calm Reason's hand illumes the flame refined,
All the pure feelings Friendship can impart
Live in the centre of my aching heart.
When at the still and solemn hour of night
I press. my lonely couch to find repose,
Joyless I watch the pale moon's chilling light
Where through the mouldering tower the
north-wind blows;
My feverish lids no balmy slumbers own,
Still my sad bosom beats for thee alone ;
• Nor shall its aching fibres cease to smart
'Till death's cold spell is twined about my heart.
TO CESARIO *
" If haply, these wild simple flowers
1 To thee some loved image convey ;
Ah ! me, then the neighbouring bowers
Yield none half so lovely as they/'
~ CESARIO TO LAURA.
Oracle, Jan. 18, 1700.
Cisario, thy lyre's dulcet measure
So sweetly, so tenderly flows,
That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,
Thy music would soften its woes.
• Mi«ti M. Vaugban, daughter of Thomas Vaughan,
Esq., of Molesy Hurst, Surry.;
But ah, gentle soother, where anguish
Takes root in the grief-stricken heart ;
Tis the triumph of sorrow to languish,
'Tis rapture to cherish the smart.
The mind where pale Misery sits brooding,
Repels the soft touch of repose ;
Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,
The balm of mild comfort bestows.
There is luxury oft m declining
What Pity's kind motives impart,
And to bear hapless fate un repining
Is the proudest delight of the heart.
Still, still shall thy lyre's gentle measure
In strains of pure melody flow,
While each heart beats with exquisite pleasure,
Save mine—the doom'd victim of wo.
STANZAS.
The savage hunter, who afar,
On some rude mountain's pathless height*
Sees in the west the twilight star
Just peering on the brow of night,
O'er cliffs of ice, or plains of snow,
Still bends his long and toilsome way,
And, as he tempts the famish'd foe,
Anticipates the joys of day.
For he, by hope inspired, surveys
The moon's wan lustre gild the dome
That on some jutting point displays,
Oh ! blest retreat ! his cavern'd home :
Where, when the journeying sun shall fade,
And cold oblivion's reign return,
The torch of love shall cheer the shade,
And midst the frozen desart burn.
For love can warm the shivering breast,
And bid Siberian fierceness sigh ;
Make flinty caves the couch of rest,
And mark with joy the frowning %ky.
But I, who taste no pleasing dreams
To smooth the paths of endless care,
Still darkness know 'midst sunny beams,
And finds in bowers of bliss, despair !
WRITTEN ON A FADED BOUQUET
Fair was this blushing rose of May,
And fresh it hail'd morn's breezy hour,
When every spangled leaf look'd gay,
Besprinkled with the twilight shower;
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TO THE ASPrN THEE. — PITY'S TEAR.
139
When to Its mossy buls, so sweet,
The butterfly enamour'd flew,
And hovering o'er the fragrant treat,
Oft bath'd its silken leaves in dew.
Sweet was this primrose of the dale,
When on its native turf it grew ;
And deck'd with charms this lily pale,
And rich this violet's purple hue.
This odorous woodbine fill'd the grove
With musky gales of balmy power,
When, with the myrtle interwove,
It hung luxuriant round my bower.
Ah, rose ! forgive the hand severe
That snatch'd thee from thy scented bed,
Where, bow'd with many a pearly tear,
Thy widow'd partner droops its head.
And thou, sweet violet, modest flower !
Oh ! take my soft relenting sigh,
Nor stain the heart, whose glowing power
With too much fondness bade thee die !
Sweet lily, had I never gazed
With rapture on thy gentle form,
Thou might'st have died, unknown, unpraised
The victim of some ruthless storm !
Where fickle Love his altar rears,
Your tiny bells had learn'd to wave ;
Or, sadly gem'd with kindred tears,
Had strown some hapless lover's grave.
Inconstant woodbine ! wherefore rove,
With gadding stem, about my bower ?
Why, with my darling myrtle wove,
In bold defiance mock my power?
Why quit thy native garden fair,
To flaunt thy buds, thy odours fling,
And idly (f.'eet the passing air,
On every wanton zephyr's wing?
Oh ! yet repine not, though stern Fate
Hath nipp'd thy leaves of varying hue,
Since all that's lovely, soon or late,
Shall sicken, fade, and die like you !
The fire of youth, the port of age,
Nor wisdom's voice, nor beauty's bloom,
Tb' insatiate tyrant can assuage,
Nor check the hand that seal'd your doom !
TO THE ASPIN TREE.
Why tremble so, broad aspin tree ?
Why shake thy leaves unceasing I
At rest thou never seem'st to be:
For when the air is still and clear,
Or when the nipping gale increasing
Shakes from thy boughs soft twilight's tsar,
Thou tremblest still, poor aspin tree,
And never resting seem'st to be !
Beneath thy shade, at sultry noon,
I oft have sat deep musing, —
And oft I watch'd the rising moon
Above the dusky summit shine,
A placid light diffusing !
When all around, a calm divine,
The rest of nature seem'd to be,
Still didst thou tremble, aspin tree !
Hadst thou sensation, I should say
Thou wert like me, — uncheerly
Ordain'd to waste life's hour away,
Indignant at the vulgar crowd,
And doom'd to feel severely,
Scorning the dull, the base, the proud :
But thou art senseless, aspin tree !
Then wherefore thus— a trembler be?
Who shall molest thee, shivering tree ?
Who shall thy branches sever ?
The seasons change— and still to thee
Another spring shall give its sweets,
And yet thou tremblest ever !
Each whispering gale thy bosom meets;
As though it came to menace thee,
Oh ! beauteous, trembling aspin tree !
Hadst thou a soul, a sensate mind,
Well might thy branches quiver ;
If round thy heart affliction twined,
To bid each fibre, torture rung,
Tremble and ache for ever !
Oh ! then thy throbbing veins among
The stormy passions wild would be, •
And thou wouldst tremble, aspin tree.
Hadst thou e'er loved, or ever felt
Warm friendship's ardour glowing j
Hadst thou in pity learn'd to melt,
Or to another's anguish gave
The tear, spontaneous flowing :
Then, sighing might thy branches wave,
And many a gentle shower from thee
Might fall in tears, sweet aspin tree.
Hadst thou e'er known Ingratitude,
Thou wouldst have cause to tremble ;
For in misfortune's tempest rude,
The deadliest foe the heart can wound
Is he— who can dissemble !
He who enthralls the willing mind,
And bids the captive bosom be
A trembler—like the aspin tree.
PITY'S TEAR.
What falls so sweet op summer flowers
As Nature's blest refreshing showers ?
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140
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
What bids the bud its sweets exhale,
Like evening's mild refreshing gale ?
Yet sweeter— more delicious far,
And brighter than Hesperean star.
Decking the intellectual sphere,
Is Pity's meek and balmy tear.
What bids Despair her sorrows hide?
What checks Affliction's torturing tide ?
What heals the wound of mental pain,
And calms the feverish throbbing brain ?
What soothes the rage of jealous pride,
And makes the maddening pang subside?
Lulling to rest distrust and fear,
Soft Pity's kind and holy tear !
Yet not that pity form'd to give
A pang, which bids affliction live ;
Not pity that can taunting show "
Superior pride, untouch'd by wo !
Not pity that, with haughty smile,
Consoles, and murders all the while !
But pity, which is form'd to prove
The bonds of faith, the test of love.
STANZAS
FROM THE NATURAL DAUGHTER.
Unhappt is the pilgrim's lot
Who wanders o'er the desert heath,
By friends and by the world forgot,
Whose only hope depends on death !
Yet may he smile when memory shows
The torturing stings, the weary woes
Which forced his bosom to abide
The vulgar scorn of vulgar pride.
Forlorn is ha who on the sand
Of some bleak isle his hovel rears,
Or shipwreck'd on the breezy strand,
The billows' deepening murmur hears.
Yet, when his aching eyes survey
The white sails gliding far away,
He feels he shall no more abide
The vulgar scorn of vulgar pride.
Sadly the exiled traveller strays,
Benighted in some forest drear,
Where, by the paly star-light rays,
He sees no hut, no hovel, near.
The fire-eyed wolf, which howls for prey,
Glares hideous in his briery way,
Yet he can smile— for he has borne
The sneers of pride and vulgar scorn.
Of all the ills the feeling mind
Is destined in this world to share ;
Of pain and poverty combined,
Of Friendship's frown, or Love's despair ;
Still reason arms the conscious soul,
And bids it every pang control,
Save when the patient heart is tried
By vulgar scorn and vulgar pride.
Go, Wealth, and in the hermit's cell
Behold that peace thou canst not have ;
Go, Rank, and list the passing knell
That warns thee to oblivion's grave.
Go, Power, and when the peasant's breast
Enjoys the balm of conscious rest,
Confess that virtue can deride
. The vulgar scorn of vulgar pride.
THE
SORROWS OF MEMORY.
In vain to me the howling deep
Stern Winter's awful reign discloses ;
In vain shall Summer's zephyrs sleepr
On fragrant beds of budding roses ;
To me, alike each scene appeal's,
Since thou hast broke my heart, or nearly ;
While Memory writes in frequent tears
That I have loved thee very dearly !
How many summers pass'd away,
How many winters sad and dreary,
And still I taught thee to be gay
Whene'er of life thy soul was weary ;
When lingering sickness wrung thy breast,
And bow'd thee to the earth, or nearly,
I strove to lull thy mind to rest—
For then I loved thee, Oh ! how dearly !
And though the flush of joy no more
Shall, o'er my cheek its lustre throwing,
Bid giddy fools that cheek adore,
And talk of passion— ever glowing ;
Still to my mind should time impart
A charm to bid it feel sincerely,
Nor idly wound a breaking heart,
That loved long and loved thee dearly.
Could gold thy truant nature bind,
A faithful heart would still content me,
For oh ! to keep that heart unkind,
I gave thee all that Fortune lent me !
In youth, when suitors round me press'd,
Who vow'd to love, and love sincerely ;
When wealth could never charm my breast,
Though thou wert poor I loved thee dearly.
Seek not the fragile dreams of love,
Such fleeting phantoms will deceive thee ;
They will but transient idols prove-
In Wealth beguile, in sorrow leave thee.
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TO THE MOLE.-TO THE
Ah ! dost thou hope the sordid mind
When thou art poor will feel sincerely ?
Wilt thou in such that friendship find
Which warm'd the heart that loved thee
dearly?
Though fickle passions cease to burn
For her sq long thy bosom's treasure,
Ah ! think that reason may return
When far from thee my steps I measure ;
Say who will then thy conscience heal,
Or who shall bid thy heart beat cheerly ?
Or from that heart the memory steal
Of her who loved thee long and dearly?
When war shall rouse the brooding storm*
And horrors haunt thy thorny pillow ;
When fancy shall present my form
Borne on the wild and restless billow ;
Or where wilt thou an helpmate find
Whose pulse, like mine, shall throb sincerely ?
Or who thy heart in spells shall bind
When hers is broke that loved thee dearly ?
1 will not court thy fickle love,
Soon shall our fates and fortunes sever;
Far from thy scorn will I remove,
And smiling, sigh adieu for ever !
Give to the sordid fiend thy days,
Still trust that they will act sincerely,
And when the spacious mask decays,
Lament the heart that loved thee dearly !
For time will swiftly journey on,
And age and sickness haste to meet thee ;
Friends proved deceitful— will be gone
When they no more with smiles can cheat
thee.
Then wilt thou seek in vain to find
A faithful heart that beats sincerely ;
A passion centering in a mind
Which, scorning interest, loved thee dearly.
When in the grave this heart shall sleep,
No soothing dream will bless thy slumber,
For thou perchance mayest wake to weep,
And with remorse thy sorrows number !
My shade will haunt thy aching eyes,
My voice in whispers tell thee clearly
How cold at last that bosom lies
Which loved thee long, and loved thee dearly !
TO THE MOLE.
Thou creep'st in darkness, busy thing !
The progress of the brightest day
To thcc can nothing cheerful bring,
No soul-expanding ray !
WILD BROOK, 141
For, ever labouring, ever dreary,
Thou never feel'st of sweet delight
That one, the proudest sense, which cheery
Scatters the sullen mist of night !
Thou canst not see thy mazy way,
Slow yielding to thy gloomy toils ;
Thou find'st no brightly smiling ray
Give pleasure as it smiles !
Thou know'st not when thy task pursuing,
Where that dull task will end j
Or when, to work thy own undoing,
Thou bid'st the fairy hill ascend.
And yet, poor, blind, incautious mole,
What am I more refined than thee ?
'Tis true I own a sensate soul,
And all around I see !
But do I 'scape the snare that, waiting,
Crosses my dreary way ?
Or, for myself at home creating,
Smooth busy life's precarious way ?
Do I not toil ! and toil like thee, .
Unknowing where that toil will end?
Do I not blindly seek to be
Of foes, unseen, the friend ?
Can human wisdom shun the ruin
Which lurks my life to snare ?
And still, the passions wild subduing,
Defy .the hidden shaft of care ?
Do I presume to scan the power,
Which bids me, ever reasoning, try •
To buffet with the stormy hour,
*Till fate shall bid me die ?
Do I, my future being knowing,
Trace what I then shall be ;
Or, while this fervid heart is glowing,
Its long and freezing hour foresee ?
TO THE WILD BROOK.
Unheeded emblem of the mind !
When weeping twilight's shadows close,
. I wander where thy mazes wind,
And watch thy current as it flows
Now dimpling, silent, calm, and even ;
Now brawling, as in anger driven ;
Now ruffled, foaming, madly wild,
Like the vex'd sense of Sorrow's hopeless
child!
Beside thy surface now I see,
Reflected in thy placid breast,
Flush'd summer's painted progeny,
In smiles and sweets redundant drest .
They flaunt their forms of varying dye,
To greet thee as thou passest by •
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
And, bending, sip thy ample wave,
And in its lucid lapse their blushing bosoms
lave.
While on thy tranquil breast appears
No freezing gale, no passing storm,
The sunbeam's vivid lustre cheers,
And seems thy silvery bed to warm ;
The thronging birds, with amorous play,
Sweep with their wings thy glittering way;
And o'er thy banks fond zephyr blows,
To dress with sweets the smallest flower that
grows.
But when destroying blasts arise,
And clouds o'ershade thy withering bounds ;
When swift the eddying foliage flies,
And loud the ruthless torrent sounds:
Thy dripling charms are seen no more,
Thy minstrel's carolTd praise is o'er ;
While not a floweret, sunny-drest,
Courts the chill 'd current of thy alter'd breast.
Such is the human mind :— serene
When fortune's glowing hour appears ;
And lovely as thy margin green
Are buds of hope which fancy rears :
Then adulation, like the flower,
Bends as it greets us on our way ;
But in the dark and stormy hour,
Leaves us, unmark'd, to trace our troubled
way.
STANZAS.
Hark I 'tis the merry bells that ring
On yonder upland sunny green ;
Their sounds to mournful memory bring
The blissful days and hours I've seen :
Their swelling changes die-away,
So did my heart's best love decay !
Hark I 'tis the beetle flitting round,
O'er yonder hawthorn fresh and sweet ;
Once could I mock the drowsy sound,
With Henry on the greensward seat :
But now I weep to hear its tone,
For, O ! my heart's true love is flown I
Hark ! 'tis the raven's dismal croak,
My boding breast is chill'd with fear I
Yet once beneath yon spreading oak
The bird of wo I smiled to hear :
For love and fancy cheer'd the gloom,
Where now the turf is Henry's tomb !
Come, pale-cheek'd vestal of the night.
And spangle the long grass with dew ;
Deck the tall woods with silvery light,
And buds of fragrant flowerets strew;
While love in secret sorrow hies
To guard the grave — where Henry lies !
There will I lay me down forlorn,
And close my weeping eyes, and die !
And when the smiling blushing morn
Shall rush along the eastern sky,
There shall the thronging village see.
To part no more, my love and me I
STANZAS
FROM THE NATURAL DAUGHTER.
'Tis night ! and o'er the barren plain
The weary wanderer bends his way ;
While on his path the silvery ray
Soothes him with hope that he shall see
The moony shadows quickly flee,
And morn return again.
The blast blows nipping on his breast,
Swift flies the wild and foamy stream ;
Yet hope presents a feeble gleam,
That ere day rises he shall close
His weary lids in soft repose
Upon a bed of rest.
The moon is dim, by clouds o'ercast,
Loud roars the torrent down the vale ;
The wanderer's cheek is cold and pale.
He hears the owl with boding cry
Across the dreary desert fly,
He starts, and stops aghast !
And now in haste, with dumb despair,
O'er bush and brier he bends his way ;
No cottage taper's lengthening ray
Gleams faint across the barren heath,
He trembles, sighs, and thinks of death,
And breathes a timid prayer.
And now the dawn is rising fast,
Soft flies the fresh and cheering gale ;
The reddening clouds on light wings sail,
The dew begems the fragrant heath :
No more he starts or thinks of death,
Or sighs for sorrows past.
So, through life's journey we descry
Man gay or sad j he weeps or smiles
As cares annoy, or hope beguiles j
Then blest are those who wisely say,
" We will enjoy the present day,—
To-morrow we may die I"
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STANZAS ON MAY 1799.
Swir May ! once the parent of love, we behold
Signing sad for her verdant array ; [cold,
While the glow of her bosom is check'd by the
And her tears tremble still on the spray.
STANZAS.
In hopes to find a place of rest
From scenes forlorn and dreary ;
Where'er I go, I'm doom'd to trace,
If fortune smiles, the smiling face ;
But if she frowns, I'm sure to see
All frown on me !
143
Say, Natore ! O why is this change so severe?
Why does spring wear so chilling a frown ?
Why does noon still present unabsorb'd morn-
ing's tear,
Why does May still expect its green gown ?
Is love grown so cold, does the bosom no more
Glow with ardour to greet thee, sweet May?
Is the smile and the frolic of youth ever o'er,
And extinct the bright torch of thy day?
Alas ! all is changed ; the fine feelings subside,
'Tia the triumph of apathy cold !
Affection is driven from the bosom of pride,
And the fiend that expels her — is gold !
Soar interest keeps her aloof, while no more
Soft philanthropy smiles on despair ;
Though profusion and folly wide scatter their
For the dull and the vicious to share, [store,
All Nature is alter'd ; her energies now
Shall no more in our valleys prevail ;
No swain on our mountains repeats his soft vow,
And no damsel breathes love with the gale.
War teaches the bosom of Nature to sigh,
While she gazes with anguish around,
While the tear of Religion falls fast from her eye,
And each morn blushes deep on her wound.
May ! let thy smiles and thy graces return,
Let thy breath Nature's treasures inclose ;
Let her tears on thy flowerets embellish the urn
Where the ashes of valour repose.
Let the revels of pride and of folly be o'er.
Give to merit the prodigal feast ;
And let pity the haunts of the wretched explore,
TU1 the portion of pain be decreased
And let wealth to the mansions of sorrow re-
pair,
With its weeds the sweet oiive entwine ;
With the sigh of regret fan the breast of de-
spair,
And the wreath of false splendour resign.
STANZAS.
As o'er the world, by sorrow prest,
1 wander sad and weary,
When morning blushes through her tears,
And Nature flaunts her treasures,
How gaudy every path appears !
How rich in boundless pleasures!
But if the dawn, in misty gloom,
Still veils the floweret's vivid bloom,
Now droops in shade the loftiest tree
Thatshelter'dme!
Nor truth nor feeling can insure
The friend that's ever smiling ;
Worth cannot worldly misery cure,
Its darkest hours beguiling.
This heart, which owns the purest flame,
Must patient bend, nor dare to blame,
Since fortune's frown the fates decree
To follow me I
Thus all things light or dark appear,
As fortune cheers or saddens ;
For time flies slow when grief is near, *
But swift when transport gladdens.
Youth is a transient summer gleam,
Where visions gay and flitting seem ;
But Time and Reason wake to see
Them fade like me!
O ! come, capricious Fortune blind,
Subdue this bosom's feeling;
Make dim the fire that warms my mind,
Thence all its fervour stealing.
Teach me the sordid servile art
To dress in low disguise the heart,
Then every face shall gentle be,
And smile on me !
STANZAS
Supposed to be written near a tree, over the Grave
of an Officer, who was killed at Line e lies, in
Flanders, in August 1703. ,
Ah ! pensive traveller, if thy tear
E'er fell on valour's early grave,
Arrest thy wandering steps, and here
Lament the lot that waits the brave i
Here let the moralist descry
The proudest tomb that man can claim,
The glorious bed where heroes lie
Who perish'd for their country's fame.
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
ilere bind the laurel, steep' d in tears,
Tears that in glowing youth he died,
Blest with each charm that most endears,
His kindred's hope, his nation s pride !
Oh ! hallow'd turf! some silent spot,
Adorn'd with sorrow's gem sublime,
E'en when the muse shall be forgot,
Thy fame shall brave the blasts of time !
r
And thou, rude bark, preserve his name,
Carved by some just recording hand ;
And, proudly conscious of that fame,
Thy guardian branches wide expand.
Keep from this sod the pattering rain,
The wintry wind, the drifted snow ;
And when blithe summer paints the plain,
Here let the sweetest flowerets blow.
No trophied column trimm'd with bays,
No gilded tablet bears his name ;
A soldier boasts superior praise,
A grateful country guards his fame.
LINES TO MARIA,
MY BELOVED DAUGHTER.
Written on her Birth-day, October 18, 1793.
To paint the lust'rous streaks of morn,
Along the pale horizon borne,
When from Aurora's opening eye
Effulgent glory gilds the sky ;
Or yet a softer theme to sing
Of purple evening's humid wing ;
To trace the crystal, car of night
Along the plains of starry light,
Where the chaste goddess bends her way,
Diffusing round a trembling ray;—
No more shall charm my pensive muse,
With transient forms, or varying hues :
This hour my tenderer task shall be.
Sweet darling maid, to sing of thee !
Attend my strain, and while I blend
The guardian, parent, poet, friend,
Believe, as each my verse shall prove,
A picture fraught with truth and love,
And every candid line impart
The feelings of a mother's heart !
Oh ! form'd to soothe the wounds of fat*
Dear solace of my mournful state !
Thou only blessing Heaven bestows
To shed meek patience on my woes !
Know— that in life's disastrous scene,
Whate'er my chequer' d lot has been,
No hour was yet so dear to me
As that blest hour which gave me thee !
From infant sweetness still I've traced
Thy mind with every virtue graced ;
Still have I mark'd Time's ceaseless winf
Some new endearing treasure bring ;
While Hope, soft- whispering, bid me gaze
On brightening scenes of distant days,
When, more matured, these doating eyes
Should see the lovelier woman rise,
Adorn'd with all the modest grace
That beam'd about thy infant face ;
Yet with a mind more passing fair
Than all that nature pictured there !
With such a mind, so richly stored,
Still may'st thou live, admired, adored !
Through life enjoy the bliss divine
That waits on innocence like thine !
Still greet the morn with conscious smile,
With tranquil scenes the hourc beguile,
And, when the busy day shall close,
Still find a couch of sweet repose !
For me, so long ordain'd to trace
O'er life's dark wild a thorny space-
Still every sorrow doom'd to share,
Still shall my heart those sorrows bear,
Nor will I mourn at Fate's decree,
If Heaven, in pity spares me thee \
THE PILGRIM'S FAREWELL.
FROM THE ROMANCE OF VANCENZA.*
O'er deserts untrodden, o'er moss-covered hills,
I have wander'd forlorn and alone ;
My tears I have mingled with slow-winding
rills,
And the valleys have echo'd my groan !
I have seen the wan moon from her silver veil
peep,
As she rose from her cloud-dappled bed ;
I have heard the dread hurricane yell 'midst the
deep,
As the lightnings play'd over my head !
] * Only in the third, fourth, and fifth editions.
STANZAS,
145
When tbe tempest subsided I saw the faint dawn
O'er the eastern hill meekly appear ;
While each kingcup that droop'd on the dew-
shining lawn
From its golden lids dropp'd a soft tear.
I have seen the bright day-star illumine the
earth,
I have hail'd the proud sovereign of fire ;
X have smiled on the primrose just waken'd to
I have sigh' d— to behold it expire ! [birth,
How oft have I pitied the plaint of the dove,
How I've mused near the nightingale's nest !
For, alas ! when the mourner sings sweetly of
love,
'Tis soft sympathy thrills through my breast.
I have seen the tall forest o'ershadow the glade,
And extend its broad branches on high ;
But how soon have I mark'd its rich canopy
fade,
And its yellow leaves whirl'd to the sky !
I have sigh'd o'er the sod where some lover was
laid;
I have torn the rude weeds from his breast ;
1 have deck'd it with flowerets ; and oft I have
" How I envy thy pallet of rest !" [said,
I have traced the long shades o'er the wave's
silky green,
When the storm gather'd over the main ;
I have gazed witb delight on the landscape
serene
When the evening-bell toll'd on the plain.
Exulting and gay, I have smiled to behold
Proud Nature luxuriantly drest;
I have wept when I saw her uncover'd and cold,
And the winter-blast howl'd o'er her breast.
Since such are the scenes of this journey of care,
Since each pleasure is mingled with pain,
Still let me the raptures of sympathy share,
And my bosom shall scorn to complain.
though destined to wander o'er mountains of
Vancenza ! O mansion divine ! [snow,
Thy pilgrim shall smile at his journey of wo,
And his heart, his warm heart shall be thine !
STANZAS
Written on the 14th of February, to my once dear
Valentine.
Come, Dope, and sweep the trembling string ;
Drop from thy pinions balm divine ;
While, drooping o'er my lyre, I sing
The graces of my Valentine.
Ah ! Graces, fatal to my peace, "*
Why round my heart your mischiefs twine?
Say, barbarous Love, can aught increase
The triumphs of my Valentine?
No more about my auburn hair
The sparkling gems shall proudly vie ;
The cypress, emblem of despair,
Shall there a faded chaplet die.
Young dimpled Pleasure quits my breast
To seek some gaudier bower than mine,
Where low Caprice, by Fancy drest.
Enthrals my truant Valentine.
The frozen brook, the mountain snow,
The pearls that on the thistle shine,
The northern winds, that chilly blow,
Are emblems of my Valentine.
Pale Sorrow sheds the quivering flame
That gleams on Truth's neglected shrine,
Fann'd by those sighs which still proclaim
How much I love thee, Valentine !
Whene'er the icy hand of Death
Shall grasp this sensate frame of mine,
On my cold lip the fleeting breath
Shall murmur still — " dear Valentine !"
Then o'er my grave, ah ! drop one tear,
And sighing write this pensive line —
" A faithful heart lies mouldering here,
That well deserved its Valentine !"
STANZAS
Inscribed to a once dear Friend, when confined by
severe indisposition, in March 1793.
Ye glades that just open to greet the blue sky,
All encircled with woodlands bespangled with
dew, [ fl y ;
From your borders, once cherish'd, disgusted I
For your beauties are faded, and sadden' d your
hue.
O ! soft gliding river, whose banks I behold
Undelighted and mournful, no longer you
please;.
Nor the deep azure bells, nor the cowslips of
gold,
Nor your smooth glassy bosom o'ershaded
with trees.
Yon mountain, whose breezes enliven the soul,
Never more will I climb at the dawning of
day;
Never more to the turf-cover 'd meadows I'll
stroll,
Or on beds of young primroses carol my lay.
T
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146
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
For, glades, to your sod with my love I've re-
tired [among,
When the red beams were rushing the foliage
When the last glowing shadow of evening ex-
pired,
And rocks rung responsive to Philomel's
And thou, lucid river, I've sat by thy side,
To behold his dear form in thy clear glassy
breast,
When the moon spread her light o'er thy soft
rolling tide,
And the wise were content with the dulness
of rest.
And thou, craggy mountain, where oft I have
stray' d,
To behold from your summit the thatch of
his cot;
Like the slow-winding river, the dew-span-
gled glade, [got.
And the thick- woven woodlands— be ever for-
See ! Nature is sadden'd by Sympathy's tears,
Since my lover no longer enlivens the day ;
And forlorn shall she be till her darling appears,
As the rose droops its head when the sun
fades away.
TO THE SAME,
On his recovering from a long indisposition,
in May, 1793.%
Go, balmy gales, and tell Lisardo's ear,
That Health comes smiling on the wings of
morn;
Tell him, that sweet Repose approaches near,
To banish feverish days, and nights forlorn.
Brightly the sun-beams on the mountains break,
And whispering zephyrs shake their wings
around ;
The day-star steals away in lustre meek,
And spreading glories gild the dewy ground-
Exulting Flora opes her varying hues;
The valley smiles, the verdant hills look gay ;
From her abundant store Profusion strews
The buds and tints of rosy-bosom'd May.
The lofty woodlands wave their leafy heads,
To wake the plumy travellers of the air ;
The low-born lilies, on their humid beds,
Expand their spotless bosoms, fresh and fair.
* Duiiug -which the Author nursed him seven
months incessantly
Slow winds the brawling river through the
vales ; [flee,
Down the rough rock the roaring torrents
The high-poised lark on floods of ether sails,
To greet the lord of light with songs of glee.
Soft is the perfume of morn's beauteous breast,
And soft the murmurs of the insect train ;
While Nature's hand, with pearly lustre drest,
Leads tip-toe Pleasure o'er the glittering plain.
For thee, Lisardo, she unfolds her store,
For thee she weaves a garland, proudly gay ;
Come then, my friend, the liberal nymph adore,
And own that Rapture is the child of May.
And while returning health pervades each nerve.
As April suns disperse the wintry gloom,
The sad remembrance of past " wo shall serv »
For sweet discourses in our time to come."
THE ADIEU TO FANCY.
INSCRIBED TO THE SAME.
When first I knew thee, Fancy's aid
A mine of peerless worth display'd,
A thousand graces hourly stole
In melting visions o'er my soul.
For Fancy guides the shaft of Love,
And bids fantastic visions move
In mystic mazes round the breast,
In Hope's delusive colours dress'd.
'Tis Fancy wings the poet's thought,
With classic Taste sublimely fraught ;
And bids the fount of Reason flow,
With smooth delight, or ruffled wo.
Full oft the gentle sylph I've seen,
With soothing smile and sportive mien,
When, wandering to her feiry bowers,
She bound my grateful breast with flowers.
And oft with flattering Hope she came
To twine a wreathe of promised fame;
Tet midst the laurel'd gift I found
Full many a thorn my breast to wound.
Oh ! then she brought, my mind to calm,
Persuasive Friendship's soothing balm ;
And Sympathy, with throbbing breast,
In Pity's specious semblance drest.
Tet Friendship's beauteous form I found
Would start aghast at Sorrow's wound;
And Sympathy's slow trickling tear
Would cease to flow when Grief was near.
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THE MORAMST. — -STANZAS,
U7
Then let me own the tranquil scene,
The constant thought, the smile serene,
And know myself supremely blest !
Deceitful Fancy— take the rest !
THE MORALIST.
Hark ! the hollow moaning wind
Sweeps along the midnight air,
Sullen as the guilty mind ;
Hidden source of dark despair.
See the death-wing'd lightning fly !
Desolation marks its way,
Fatal as the vengeful eye,
Fixing on its destined prey.
Dreadful thunders threat'ning roll,
Viewless, 'midst the turbid clouds !
So the fierce relentless soul
Hate's empoison'd arrow shrouds.
See the billowy ocean's breast,
Sway'd by every wavering wind,
Rises, foams, and sinks to rest,
Fickle as the human mind !
Sweetly blooms the rose of May,
Glittering with the tears of morn ;
So insidious smiles betray,
"While they hide the treacherous thorn.
Mark gay Summer's gjowing prime,
Shadowed by the twilight gloom ;
So the ruthless wing of time
Bends the fairest to the tomb.
Moralist! where'er you move
O'er vast Nature's varying plan,
Every changing scene shall prove
A sad epitome of man !
STANZAS
TO MY BELOVED DAUGHTER.
ON SEEING HE* GATHER SOME PENSEES. *
Forbear, rash maid ! thy hand restrain ;
Nor with yon gentle victim stain
A breast so fair, so true !
Ah ! think, the little harmless flower
Lives but a transient sunny hour,
Ere doom'd to fade like you.
# Pensee is the French word for thougtits.
Though silken cords around it twined,
One sad, short day, its stems may bind ;
Vain is the harsh decree !
Its magic form no spell can hold ;
Still shall it triumph uncontrol'd,
For thoughts are ever free.
And if those buds, so sweet, so fair
Can 'scape the bold intruder's snare,
Their triumph should be thine ;
For, like thy pure and tender heart,
They scorn the feeble aid of art,
And glow with charms divine.
Then let soft sympathy prevail :
No more the gentle leaves assail !
Ah ! let them bloom their hour !
Take not what bounteous Nature gave,
But learn to cherish, and to save,
Then triumph in thy power*
STANZAS
WRITTEN AFTER SUCCESSIVE NIGHTS OF
MELANCHOLY DREAMS.
Ye airy phantoms, by whose power
Night's curtains spread a deeper shade ;
Who, prowling in the murky hour,
The weary sense with spells invade ;
Why round the fibres of my brain
Such desolating miseries fling,
And with new scenes of mental pain
Chase from my languid eye sleep's balm-dispen*
ing wing ?
Ah ! why, when o'er the darken'd globe
All Nature's children sink to rest-
Why, wrapp'd in horror's ghastly robe,
With shadowy hand assail my breast ?
Why conjure up a tribe forlorn,
To menace, where I bend my way ?
Why round my pillow plant the thorn,
Or fix the Demons dire in terrible array?
Why, when the busy day is o'er—
A day perhaps of tender thought-
Why bid my eager gaze explore
New prospects, with new anguish fraught ?
Why bid my madd'ning sense descry
The form in eilence 1 adore ?
His magic smile, his murderous eye !
Then bid me wake to prove the fond illusion
When, feverish with the throbs of pain,
And bathed with many a trickling tear,
I close my cheated eyes again,
Despair's wild bands are hovering n*»ar ;
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148 MRS. ROBINSON'S
Now borne upon the yelling blast,
O'er craggy peaks I bend my flight ;
Now on the yawning ocean cast, [night !
I plunge unfathom'd depths, amid the shades of
Or, borne upon the billows* ire,
O'er the vast waste of waters drear,
Where shipwreck'd mariners expire,
No friend their dying plaints to hear,
I view far off the craggy cliff,
Whose white top mingles with the skies ;
While at its base the shatter'd skiff,
Wa&h'd by the foaming wave, in many a frag-
ment lies.
Oft, when the morning's gaudy beams
My lattice gild with sparkling light
O'erwhelm'd with agonizing dreams,
And bound in spells of fancied night,
I start, convulsive, wild, distraught !
By some pale murderer's poniard press'd,
Or by the grinning phantom caught,
Wake from the maddening grasp with horror-
freezing breast !
Then down my cold and pallid cheek
The mingling tears of joy and grief
The soul's tumultuous feeling speak,
And yield the struggling heart relief;
I smile to know the danger past,
But soon the radiant moment flies-
Soon is the transient day o'ercast, [ e yes !
And hope steals trembling from my languid
If thus, for moments of repose,
Whole hours of misery I must know ;
If, when each sunny day shall close,
I must each gleam of peace forego !
If for one little morn of mirth,
This breast must feel long nights of pain,
Oh ! life, thy joys are nothing worth !
Then let me sink to rest — and never wake again !
THE MANIAC.
Ah ! what art thou, whose eye-balls roll
Like heralds of the wandering soul,
While down thy cheek the scalding torrents
Why does that agonizing shriek [flow ?
The mind's unpitied anguish speak ? [wo.
O tell me, thing forlorn ! and let me share thy
Why dost thou rend thy matted hair,
And beat that burning bosom bare?
Why is thy lip so parch'd, thy groan so deep?
Why dost thou fly from cheerful light,
And seek in caverns mid-day night, [sleep ?
And cherish thoughts untold, and banish gentle
POEMS.
Why dost thou from thy scanty bed
Tear the rude straw to crown thy head,
And nod with ghastly smile, and wildly sing?
While down thy pale distorted face
The crystal drops each other chase,
As though thy brain were drown'd in one eter-
nal spring ?
Why dost thou climb yon craggy steep,
That frowns upon the clamorous deep,
And howl, responsive to the waves below ?
Or on the margin of the rock
Thy sovereign orb exulting mock, [fro?
And waste the freezing night in pacing to and
Why dost thou strip the fairest bowers,
To dress thy scowling brow with flowers,
And fling thy tatter'd garment to the wind ?
Why madly dart from cave to cave,
Now laugh and sing, then weep and rave,
I And round thy naked limbs fantastic fragments
I bind ?
!
Why dost thou drink the midnight dew,
Slow trickling from the baneful yew,
Stretch'd on a pallet of sepulchral stone ;
While, in her solitary tower,
The minstrel of the witching hour
Sits half congeal' d with fear, to hear thy dismal
moan?
Thy form upon the cold earth cast,
Now grown familiar with the blast,
Defies the biting frost and scorching sun :
All seasons are alike to thee ;
Thy sense, unchain'd by destiny, [one !
Resists, with dauntless pride, all miseries but
Fix not thy steadfast gaze on me,
Shrunk atom of mortality !
Nor freeze my blood with thy distracted groan ?
Ah ! quickly turn those eyes away,
They fill my soul with dire dismay,
For dead and dark they seem, and almost chill'd
to stone !
Yet, if thy scatter'd senses stray
Where Reason scorns to lend a ray,
Or if Despair supreme usurps her throne,
Oh ! let me all thy sorrows know ;
With thine my mingling tear shall flow,
And I will share thy pangs, and make thy griefs
my own.
Hath love unlock'd thy feeling breast,
And stolen from thence the balm of rest?
Then far away on purple pinions borne,
Left only keen regret behind,
To tear with poison'd fangs thy mind,
While barbarous Memory lives, and bids thee
hopeless mourn ?
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MARIE ANTOINETTE'S LAMENTATION.
349
Does Fancy to thy straining arms
Give the false nymph in all her charms,
And with her airy voice beguile thee so,
That Sorrow seems to pass away,
Till the blithe harbinger of day
Awakes thee from thy dream, and yields thee
back to wo ?
Say, have the bonds of friendship fail'd,
Or jealous pangs thy mind assail* d ;
While black Ingratitude, with rancorous tooth,
Pierced the fine fibres of thy heart,
And festering every sensate part,
Dim'd with contagious breath the crimson glow
of youth ?
Or has stern Fate, with ruthless hand,
Dash' 4 on some wild untrodden strand
Thy little bark, with all thy fortunes fraught;
While thou didst watch the stormy night
Upon some bleak rock's fearful height,
Till thy hot brain consumed with desolating
thought ?
Ah ! wretch forlorn, perchance thy breast,
By the cold fangs of Avarice press* d,
Grew hard and torpid by her touch profane ;
Till Famine pinch' d thee to the bone,
And mental torture made thee own
That thing the most accursed, who drags her
endless chain !
Or say, does flush'd Ambition's wing
Around thy feverish temples fling
Dire incense, smoking from th' ensanguined
plain*
That, drain'd from bleeding warriors* hearts,
Swift to thy shatter'd sense imparts
The victor's savage joy, that thrills through
every vein ?
Does not the murky gloom of night
Give to thy view some murderous sprite,
Whose poniard gleams along thy cell forlorn ;
And when the sun expands his ray,
Dost thou not shun the jocund day,
And mutter curses deep, and hate the ruddy
morn?
And yet the morn on rosy wing
Could once to thee its raptures bring,
And Mirth's enlivening song delight thine
ear;
While Hope thine eye-lids could unclose
From the sweet slumbers of repose,
To tell thee Love's gay throng of tender joys
were near*
Or hast thou stung with poignant smart
The orphan's and the widow's heart,
And plunged them in cold Poverty's abyss ;
While Conscience, like a vulture, stole
To feed upon thy tortured soul, [bliss ?
And tear each barbarous sense from transitory
Or hast thou seen some gentle maid,
By thy deluding voice betray'd, [morse ?
Fade like a flower, slow withering with re-
And didst thou then refuse to save
Thy victim from an early grave,
Till at thy feet she lay a pale and ghastly corse?
Oh ! tell me, tell me all thy pain ;
Pour to mine ear thy frenzied strain,
And I will share thy pangs, and soothe thy
Poor maniac ! I will dry thy tears,
And bathe thy wounds, and calm thy fears,
And with soft Pity's balm enchant thee to re-
pose.
MARIE ANTOINETTE'S
LAMENTATION,
IN HER PRISON OP THE TEMPLE.
Written in March. 1793.
When on my bosom evening's ruby light
Through my thrice-grated window warmly
glows,
Why does the cheerful ray offend my sight,
And with its lustre mock my weary woes ?
Alas ! because on my sad breast appears
A dreadful record — written with my tears !
When awful midnight, with her ebon wand,
Charms nature's poorest, meanest child to
peace,
Why cannot I one little hour command,
When gentle sleep may bid my anguish cease?
Alas ! because, where'er I lay my head,
A dreary couch I find, with many a thorn o'er-
spread.
When the sun, rising in the eastern skies,
Awakes the feather'd race to songs divine,
Why does remembrance picture to these eyes
The jocund morn of life, that once was mine ?
Alas ! because, in sorrow doom'd to mourn,
I ne'er shall see that blissful morn return
When I behold my darling infants sleep,
Fair spotless blossoms, deck'd in opening
charms,
Why do I start aghast, and wildly weep,
And madly snatch them to my eager arms?
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150 MRS. ROBiHscnra
AH me ! because my sense, o'erwhelm'd with
dread,
Views tbe sweet cherubs on their funeral bed !
Why, when they ope their eyes to gaze on me,
And fondly press me in their dear embrace,
Jiang on my neck, or clasp my trembling knee,
Why do maternal sorrows drench my face ?
Alas ! because inhuman hands unite
To tear from my fond soul its last delight !
Oh, fell Barbarity ! yet spare a while
The sacred treasures of my throbbing breast ;
Ob, spare their infant hearts, untouch'd by
guile,
And let a widow' d mother's darlings rest !
Though you hare struck your falchions at the
root,
Oh, give the tender branches time to shoot !
The lightning, by the angry tempest cast,
Strikes at the lofty pine, and lays it low ;
While the small floweret 'scapes the deadly
blast,
A while its odorous breath around to
throw!
Then let distracted Gallia's lilies bloom,
Though but to deck with sweets a dungeon's
gloom !
Oh my poor innocents ! all bathed in tears,
Like withering flowerets wash'd with chill-
ing dew,
Sleep on, nor heed a frantic mother's fears :
The savage tigers will not injure you !
Your harmless bosoms not a crime can know,
Scarce born to greatness— ere consign' d to
wo!
When left forlorn, dejected, and alone,
Imperfect sounds my pensive soul annoy ;
1 hear in every distant mingling tone
The merry bells— the boisterous songs of joy !
Ah ! then I contemplate my loathsome cell.
Where meagre grief and scowling horror dwell !
The rabble's din, the tocsin's fetal sound,
The cannon thundering through the vaulted
sky,
The curling smoke in columns rising round,
Which from my iron lattice 1 descry,
Rouse my lethargic mind ! I shriek in vain,
My tyrant jailor only mocks my pain !
Yet bear thy woes, my soul, with proud dis-
dain,
Meet the keen lance of death with steadfast
eye;
Think on the glorious tide that fills each vein,
And throbbing bids me tremble not, to die !
Yet, shall I from my friendless children part?
Oh, all the mother rushes to my heart !
Where'er I turn, a thousand ills appear,
Arm'd at all points in terrible array :
Pale hood-wink'd Murder ever lurking neai,
And coward Cruelty that ever shuns the day
See, see, they pierce with many a recreant
sword,
The mangled bosom of my bleeding lord !
Oh, dreadful thought I Oh, agony supreme !
When will the sanguinary scene be o'er?
When will my soul, in sweet Oblivion's dream,
Fade from this orb to some more peaceful
shore?
When will the cherub Pity break the snare,
And snatch one victim from the last despair?
A FRAGMENT.
Supposed to be written near the Jtonple, at Paris,
on the night before the Execution of Louis XVI.
Now midnight spreads her sable vest
With starry rays, light-tissued o'er ;
Now from the desert's this tied breast
The chilling dews begin to soar ;
The owl shrieks from the tottering tower,
Dread watch-bird of the witching hour I
Spectres, from their charnel cells,
Cleave the air with hideous yells ! /
Not a glow-worm ventures forth
To gild his little speck of earth !
In wild despair creation seems to wait,
While Horror stalks abroad, to deal the sliafts
of Fate !
To yonder damp and dreary cave,
From black Oblivion's silent wave,
Borne on Desolation's wings,
Death his poison'd chalice brings !
Wide beneath tbe turbid sky,
Fierce Rebellion's banners fly,
Sweeping to her iron den
The agonizing hearts of men !
There, in many a ghastly throng,
Blood-stain'd myriads glide along,
While each above his crest a falchion rears,
Imbued with tepid gore, or drench'd with
scalding tears !
About yon tower, (whose grated cell
Entombs the fairest child of earth,
August in misery as in birth)
The hosts of Pandimonium dwell 5
Night and day the fiends conspire
To glut their desolating ire : '
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INVOCATION
Ire that feeds on human wo,
That smiling deals tie murderous blow ;
And as the hopeless victim dies,
Fills with shouts the threatening skies;
Nor trembles, lest the vengeful lightning's glare
Should blast their recreant arms, and scatter
them to air !
Hound the deep entrenchments stand
Bold Ambition's giant band ;
Beneath, insidious Malice creeps,
And keen Revenge that never sleeps ;
While dark Suspicion hovers near,
Stung by the dastard scorpion, Fear ;
Reason, shrinking from her gaze,
flies the scene in wild amaze ;
While trembling Pity dies to see
The barbarous sons of anarchy
Drench their unnatural hands in human blood,
While patriot Virtue sinks beneath the whelm-
ing flood!
Hark! the petrifying shriek
Breaks from yonder turret bleak ;
The lofty tower returns the sound,
Echoing through its base profound !
The rising moon, with paly light,
Faintly greets the aching sight
With many a gliding sentinel,
Whose shadow would his steps repel;
Whose soul, convulsed with conscious wo,
Pants for the morning's purple glow,
The purple glow that cheers his breast, [rest.
And gives his startled mind a short-lived hour of
But when shall morn's effulgent light
The hapless sufferer's glance invite ?
When shall the breath of rosy day
Around the infant victims play?
When will the vivifying orb
The tears of widow'd love absorb ?
See, see, the palpitating breast,
By the weeping graces drest,
Now dumb with grief, now raving wild,
Bending o'er each withering child,
The only treasures spared by savage ire,
The fading shadows of their murder'd sire !
The seraph Hope, with transient light,
Illumes the dreary shade of night ;
Suspends a while the frenzied shriek,
The slow-paced tear of sufferance meek ;
But soon the demon Wrath appears,
Who braves the touch of mortal fears ;
His naming sword, with hideous glare,
Proves the dire signal of Despair !
Retiring Hope beholds, subdued,
The fatal mandate sign'd with blood,
With kindred blood ! Oh, horrible and base,
To stigmatize with shame a long illustrious
race?
TO OBEROIT.
151
Oh, Fancy ! spread thy powerful wing,
From hell's polluted confines spring ;
Quit, quit the cell where madness lies,
With wounded breast, and starting eyes !
The ruthless fiends have done their worst,
They triumph in the deed accursed.
See, her veil Oblivion throws
O'er the last of human woes 1
Life's curtain falls with many a crimson stain,
Closing from every eye the scene of pain,
While from afar the war-song dins the ear,
And drowns the dying groan, which angels weep
to hear.
INVOCATION TO OBERON.
Written on the recovery of my Daughter from In-
oculation.
Lightly on the breath of morn
See the shades of twilight borne j
See the sua, in splendour drest,
Lifting high his flaming crest
Earth receives him bathed in tears,
Sprinkled from the starry spheres,
When the chilly pale-faced moon
Journey'd to her shadowy noon !
Hark ! a plaintive voice I hear,
Whispering to my pensive ear :
" Oberon," it seems to say,
" Gentle Fairy, haste away ;
Haste on health's ambrosial wing,
Freshest dews of morning bring,
Balmy breezes, such as spread
Hebe's cheek with glowing red ;
Such as in Helvetia's bowers
Gently fan the Austral showers !
" Swift as thought, dear spirit, fly,
Wake to joy my darling's eye !
Now with perfumes bathe her breast,
Now compose her pangs to rest ;
Haste, exert thy magic power,
Danger lurks in every hour !"
From the tulips ample dome,
Anxious mourner, see, I come !
Now behold my filmy vest,
Gay with gaudy cowslips drest !
See the kingcup's burnish'd bell
Half my dainty brows conceal ;
See my acorn goblet fill'd
With drops of ether, thrice distill'd ;
Wings IVe stolen, of rainbow die,
From the vagrant butterfly ;
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152
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS,
Myrtle leaves my sandals are,
Tied with strings of golden hair ;
Glossy streamers fan the wind,
From the silk-worm's web purloin'd,
Which the toiling insect wove
For the killing eyes of Love !
For the god, as mortals know,
Blindly twangs his fatal bow ;
While I top the beacon's head ;
While I skim o'er ocean's bed,
Ere the sun, with burning eye,
O'er the welkin's brow shall fly,
Or with fiery pinions sweep
Proudly down the western steep ;
Or his burnish' d mantle fling
O'er the dauntless eagle's wing ;
Ere upon the world below
Evening's crimson blushes glow,
Fair Maria's feverish lip
Shall Hygeia's balsam sip !
Many a verdant leaf I bear,
Gifted with perfections rare !
Stripp'd from roots of wondrous power,
When at midnight's silent hour
On the zephyr's wings I sail,
Sweeping from the Primrose pale
Dew, that o'er its sickly face
Sheds a ray of sparkling grace.
Nor in these alone I find
Charms to heal the wounded mind :
From the poppy I have ta'en
Mortal's balm, and mortal's bane !
Juice that, creeping through the heart,
Deadens every sense of smart ;
Doom'd to heal, or doom'd to kill,
Fraught with good, or fraught with ill.
This I stole, when witches fell,
Busy o'er a murderous spell,
On the dark and barren plain,
Echo'd back the night-owl's strain !
While the winking stars withdrew,
Shock'd their horrid rites to view.
See, to crown the precious heap,
Drops, that modest violets weep,
When the rosy-bosom'd May
Rushes forth in colours gay,
Scattering from her perfumed wing
All the rival flowers of spring !
Flowers that lift their haughty heads
High above their native beds,
Shading o'er the icy cheek
Of the fainting snow-drop meek !
These shall sprinkle soothing balm,
Every throbbing pulse to calm !
Round Maria's aching head
Soon the healing drops I'll shed .-
When they reach her languid eye,
Soon the rending pang shall fly ;
From her pale and alter' d face,
Health the sickly hue shall chase !
Health, that through the bosom flows,
And bathes the cheek—a living rose !
Nor e'en then will I depart
From the gentle maiden's heart :
Fondly vigilant, I'll fly
O'er the earth, or through the sky ;
Still with restless pinions sweep
O'er the terrors of the deep ;
Or with wings of lightning soar
High as Heaven's star-spangled floor !
When the silent queen of night,
Deck'd in silvery armour bright,
Seated in her shadowy chair,
Sails, despotic, through the air !
Till the monarch of the sky
Bids the pale usurper fly,
While the wanton sprites and fays
Vanish from his potent gaze ;
Till, to cheer the sportive train,
Witching night returns again.
Yes, where'er the damsel strays
Through dull life's perplexing maze,
Watchful Oberon shall be
Guardian of her destiny !
TO JULIUS.*
" Julia, by every Muse beloved and blest,
By every glowing grace that lifts that breast!
By passion's soul, that fires the piercing eye,
By Rapture's energy, by Pity's sigh,
I charge thee, stoop not, e'en in anger just,
To paint the poisonous aspic of the dost."
JULIUS.
Oracle, Oct. 7, 1791.
The dusky veil of night was thrown
O'er the flush'd forehead of the west,
When thy soft harp's melodious tone
Roused the faint tenant of my breast ;
A glow of joy my cheek o'erspread,
The classic page I scarce could see,
For pride my raptured fancy led
To learn the lesson taught by thee.
Yes, Julius, when the pensive breast,
Sick of life's gaudy feverish dream,
Courts the cool hour of mental rest,
And owns youth's season but a dream !
* James Boaden, Esq. A. M. author of " Fontain-
ville Forest," a tragedy ; " The Secret Tribunal," &c
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Sweet is the gale that wafts the sound
That bids corroding anguish flee :
And kind the voice of truth profound,
And blest the muse that sings like thee.
But what avails the dulcet tone,
The lesson wisdom's voice can preach ?
Can reason calm affliction's groan,
Or maxim's patient sufferance teach ?
Know, liberal Bard, the vulgar throng
Who point the rancorous shaft at me,
Feel not the thrills of sacred song,
Nor heed the precepts taught by thee !
Yet in my bosom's ruby cell,
The philosophic lore shall live !
For who can sooth the mind so well,
With all the graceful muse can give ?
And when the dart pale envy wings,
With recreant mischief aims at me,
111 turn where polished Julius sings,
And mock the power of destiny (
And when weak Slander's subtle art
Spits poison o'er the venal page,
With the proud lyre I'll shield my heart,
And, smiling, mock the feeble rage !
So when the venom'd spider stings,
Whose wound no mortal can endure,
Let the rapt minstrel sweep the strings,
And heavenly music yields a cure !*
STANZAS.
STANZAS.
Written between Dover and Calais, in July 1702.
Bounding billow, cease thy motion,
Bear me not so swiftly o'er !
Cease thy roaring, foamy ocean !
I will tempt thy rage no more.
Ah ! within my bosom beating,
Varying passions wildly reign !
Love, with proud resentment meeting,
Throbs by turns of joy and pain !
Joy, that far from foes I wander,
Where their arts can reach no more ;
Fain, that woman's heart grows fonder,
When the dream of bliss is o'er.
• The sting of the Tarantula is said to be cured by
music,
Love, by fickle fancy banished,
Spurn'd by Hope, indignant flies :
Yet, when Love -and Hope are vanish'd,
Restless Memory never dies !
Far I go, where Fate shall lead me,
Far across the troubled deep !
Where no stranger's ear shall heed me,
Where no eye for me shall weep.
Proud has been my fatal passion,
Proud my injured heart shall be !
While each thought and inclination
Proves that heart was form'd for thee !
Not one sigh shall tell my story,
Not one tear my cheek shall stain ;
Silent grief shall be my glory,
Grief that stoops not to complain.
Let the bosom, prone to ranging,
Still, by ranging, seek a cure :
Aline disdains the thought of changing,
Proudly destined to endure !
Yet, ere far from all 1 treasured,
T*»»»»*»!erel bid adieu,
Ere my days of pain are measured,
Take the song that's still thy due !
Yet believe, no servile passions
Seek; to charm thy wandering mind ;
Well I know thy inclinations,
Wavering as the passing wind !
I have loved thee, dearly loved thee,
Through an age of worldly wo !
How ungrateful 1 have proved thee,
Let my mournful exile show.
Ten long years of anxious sorrow,
Hour by hour, I counted o'er ;
Looking, forward 'till to-morrow,
Every day I loved thee more.
Power and splendour could not charm me,
I no joy in wealth could see ;
Nor could threats or fears alarm mo-
Save the fear of losing thee.
When the storms of fortune press'd thee,
I have sigh'd to hear thee sigh ;
Or when sorrows dire distressed thee,
I have bid those sorrows fly !
Often hast thou smiling told me,
Wealth and power were trifling things ;
While Love, smiling to behold me,
Mock'd cold Time's destructive wings.
U
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MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
When with thee, what ills could harm me ?
Thou couldst every pang assuage !
Now, alas ! what Hope can charm me !
Every moment seems an age !
Fare thee well, ungrateful rover !
Welcome Gallia's hostile shore :
Now the hreezes waft me over ;
Now we part— to meet no more !
STANZAS
HIM WHO SAID, "WHAT IS LOVET
" Sat, what is Love ?" I heard the sound
Steal softly on the western gale ;
While fluttering zephyrs, whispering round,
Bore to mine ear thy gentle tale.
Dost thou not know?— -Ah ! minstrel sweet,
I'll tell thee — Love is hut a dream,
A glittering phantom, form'd to cheat,
The rainbow of youth's sunny heam.
On air-built throne the mischief dwells,
Bright to the fascinated view ;
Serene amidst tempestuous spells,
Disguised in tints of heavenly hue !
We gaze, We wonder at his charm j,
So passing fair the hoy appears ;
His sighs the fiercest rage disarms,
While cold indifference melts in tears.
So humble seems the weeping child,
That Pity joys to see him blest ;
While Passion hastes with transport wild,
And clasps him to her burning breast.
And if the cunning Urchin smiles,
The light-wing'd Pleasures fluttering nigh,
'Midst glowing blisses, sportive wiles,
Snatch rapture from his laughing eye.
For he can laugh, and sigh, and weep,
Now frown severe, then smile again ;
And he can bid dull Sorrow sleep,
Or dash the cup of Joy with pain.
And he can cheer the throbbing breast,
While Hope's bright flame illumes his eye ;
Can point the distant heaven of rest,
Then bid the flattering vision fly.
He can bid Poverty's sad child
Repose upon his downy wing ;
Can lull to peace Distraction wild,
And heal pale Misery's sharpest sting.
But when, capricious, false, and vain,
The tyrant shows his boasted power,
The sensate bosom throbs with pain,
And cares the vital throne devour.
Ah ! then he triumphs — then he turns
From Hope's fond gaze, indignant, cold ;
From his proud heart the wretch he spurns,
And smiles his victim to behold.
Ah ! then he drinks the bitter tear,
And mocks the soul-departing sigh ;
While his dread minion, jealous Fear,
Proclaims that dark Despair is nigh !
Unmoved, he sees the languid look,
The cheek slow-fading to decay,
The breast by every hope forsook,
The mind to withering grief a prey !
He sees the wreath of Genius fade,
Blasted by pale Oblivion's breath,
As slow she seeks the fatal shade,
Where Madness points the cave of Death.
If o'er some towering rock he bends,
And, shrunk with anguish, weeps and raves ;
If black Despair his bosom rends,
While from the steep the storm he braves ;
Or on the margin wild, forlorn,
He meditates perpetual sleep ;"
Or, on the ruthless whirlwinds borne,
Hangs trembling o'er the howling deep*
If to the moon he tells his woes,
When midnight guides her sable rein ;
Or shrieks with fierce convulsive throes,
Till frenzy grasps his burning brain:
Or if, in rosy graces drest,
He lures thee to his fatal bower,
And tells thee he will make thee blest
With proud delight's extatic power ;
Ah, heed him not, thou Minstrel sweet !
The tempter courts but to abuse ;
From the tell traitor turn thy feet,
And live— a favourite of the Muse !
THE RECANTATION.
Tell not me of silvery sands,
Rocks of coral, caves of .gold ;
Love my votive song demands,
Love can brighter themes unfold.
Jigitizea oy \jvj\j
£IV
THE FUGITIVE.
155
Rove amidst Golconda's mines,
Lave thy form 'midst pearly seas ;
While Love's spell around me twines,
I can scorn such joys as these.
Go, where citron groves entwine,
Where gigantic aloes bloom ;
Love can form his myrtled shrine,
'Midst the rugged desert's gloom.
Go, where austral skies invite
Perfumed gales from roseate bowers,
While amidst the sultry night,
Round thee balmy ether showers.
Go, where drops the tepid vine,
Where the honey'd Hybla glows ;
Let their sweetest gifts combine,
Love has sweeter gifts than those.
Go, where clouds 'of orient gold
Gently sail o'er amber floods :
Go, where musky flowers unfold,
Shedding odours from their buds.
Go, where morn, with rosy crest,
Shakes her golden tresses bright ;
Go, where evening's glowing vest
Clothes the plain in purple light
Still will sickening fancy die,
Sated with their gaudy hues :
So the traveller's aching eye
I Day's effulgent lustre views.
Come then, Love, delicious boy !
Come, in all thy charms array'd :
Thine alone is real joy,
All the rest a glittering shade.
I with thee will climb the steep
Where the brawling torrents flow*
Rushing with impetuous sweep
To the quivering lake below.
I with thee will wander far,
Where the rippling river strays,
While the twinkling evening star
Shoots around its feeble rays;
Till the pallid queen of night,
Rising, lifts her silver wreath,
Spreading soft and trembling light
O'er the silent world beneath.
Then, I'll lead thee to my home,
Blest retreat of mental joys,
Far from Folly's splendid dome,
Far from Fashion's trivial toys.
Then, I'll court thee to repose
On my mossy pillow rude,
Where false friends and envious foes
Dare not break our solitude.
Come then, Love, delicious boy !
Come, in all thy charms array'd ;
Thine alone is real joy,
All the rest a glittering shade.
THE FUGITIVE.
Oft have I seen yon solitary man
Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow
Sits melancholy, mark'd with decent pride,
A 8 it would fly the busy taunting world,
And feed upon reflection. Sometimes, near
The foot of an old tree, he takes his seat,
And with the page of legendary lore
Cheats the dull hour, while evening's sober eye
Looks tearful as it closes. In the dell
By the swift brook he loiters, sad and mute,
Save when a struggling sigh half murmur'd,
steals
From his wrung bosom. To the rising moon,
His eye raised wistfully, expression fraught,
He pours the cherish'd anguish of his soul,
Silent, yet eloquent : for not a sound
That might alarm the night's lone sentinel,
The dull-eyed owl, escapes his trembling lip, -
Unapt in supplication. He is young,
And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth
That all its fires are faded. What is he ?
And why, when morning sails upon the breeze,
Fanning the blue hill's summit, does he stay
Loitering and sullen, like a truant boy,
Beside the woodland glen ; or stretch'd along
On the green slope, watch his slow wasting form
Reflected, trembling, on the river's breast?
His garb is coarse and threadbare, and his
cheek
Is prematurely faded. The check'd tear,
Dimming his dark eye's lustre, seems to say,
" This world is now, to me, a barren waste,
A desert full of weeds and wounding thorns,
And I am weary : for my journey here
Has been, though short, but cheerless." Is it so ?
Poor traveller ! Oh tell me, tell me all~
For I, like thee, am but a fugitive, »
An alien from delight, in this dark scene !
And, now I mark thy features, I behold
The cause of thy complaining. Thou art here
A persecuted exile ! one, whose soul,
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MRS. llOBINSON'S POEMS.
Unbow'd by guilt, demands no patronage
From blunted feeling, or the frozen hand
Of gilded ostentation. Thou, poor priest !
Art here, a stranger, from thy kindred torn—
Thy kindred massacred ! thy quiet home,
The rural palace of some village scant,
Shelter'd by vineyards, skirted by fair meads,
And by the music of a shallow rill
Made ever cheerful, now thou hast exchanged
For stranger woods and valleys.
What of that?
Here, or on torrid deserts ; o'er the world
Of trackless waves, or on the frozen cliffs
Of black Siberia, thou art not alone !
For there, on each, on all, the Deity
Is thy companion still ! Then, exiled man !
Be cheerful as the lark that o'er yon hill
In Nature's language, wild, yet musical,
Hails the Creator ! nor thus sullenly
Repine, that, through the day, the sunny beam
Of lustrous fortune gilds the palace roof,
While thy short path, in this wild labyrinth,
Is lost in transient shadow.
Who, that lives,
Hath not his portion of calamity ?
Who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom ?
The fever, throbbing in the tyrant's veins
In quick, strong language, tells the daring
wretch
That he is mortal, like the poorest slave
Who wears his chain, yet healthfully suspires.
The sweetest rose will wither, while the
storm
Passes the mountain thistle. The bold bird,
Whose strong eye braves the ever-burning orb,
Falls like the summer fly, and has at most
But his alloted sojourn. Exiled man,
Be cheerful ! Thou art not a fugitive !
All are thy kindred — all thy brothers, here —
The hoping— 'trembling creatures— of one God !
THE BIRTH-DAY.
Here bounds the gaudy gilded chair,
Bedeck'd with fringe, and tassels gay ;
The melancholy mourner there
Pursues her sad and painful way.
Here, guarded by a motley train,
The pamper'd countess glares along ;
There, wrung by poverty and pain,
Pale Misery mingles with the throng.
Here, as the blazon 'd chariot rolls,
And prancing horses scare the crowd,
Great names, adorning little souls,
Announce the empty, vain, and proud.
Here four tall lackeys slow precede
A painted dame, in rich array ;
There the sad shivering child of need
Steals barefoot o'er the flinty way.
" Room, room ! stand back !" they loudly cry,
The wretched poor are driven around
On every side, they scatter'd fly,
And shrink before the threatening sound.
Here, amidst jewels, feathers, flowers,
The senseless dutchess sits demure ;
Heedless of all the anguish'd hours
The sons of modest worth endure.
All sliver d," and embroider' d o'er,
She neither knows nor pities pain ;
The beggar freezing at her door
She overlooks with nice disdain.
The wretch whom poverty subdues
Scarce dares to raise his tearful eye ;
Or if by chance the throng he views,
His loudest murmur is a sigh !
The poor wan mother, at whose breast
The pining infant craves relief,
In one thin tatter'd garment drest,
Creeps forth to pour the plaint of grief.
But ah ! how little heeded here
The faultering tongue reveals its wo ;
For high-born fools, with frown austere,
Contemn the pangs they never know.
" Take physic, Pomp !" let Reason say,
" What can avail thy trappings rare ?
The tomb shall close thy glittering day,
The beggar prove thy equal there !"
THE FISHERMAN.
Along the smooth and glassy stream
The little boat glides slow ;
And wbile beneath the rosy beam
Of setting sun the waters glow,
The Fisherman is singing gay,
" Sweet is the hour of setting day."
The net, expanded wide, displays
The snare of direful fate ;
And where the finny victim plays
The shafts of death unseen await *
And still the Fisherman is gay
Singing at close of summer's day.
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STANZAS. — THE
The zephyrs on each willow bed
In busy whispers fly,
And o'er the lowly, peaceful shed
The mournful screech-owls hovering cry ;
Yet still the Fisherman can say,
" How cheerful is the close of day !"
The rising moon, with quivering light,
Along the river throws
A soft beam from the brow of night,
And still a mimic day bestows ;
While on the smooth and liquid way
The silent Fisherman is gay.
The rosy dawn above the hills
Scatters the severing clouds,
And myriads flitting o'er the rills,
The violet- scented margin shrouds:
And from his hut, to greet the day,
The Fisherman comes blythe and gay.
Happy is he who never knew
The idle pride of state !
Who, stranger to the sordid crew,
Lives unmolested by the great ;
Who labours through his little day,
And, pleased with labour, still is gay.
Poor Fisherman ! would man like thee
Contented pass his hour ;
Would those of loftier destiny
Forbear to use the rod of power-
How man through life's busy day-
Would sing like thee— beloved and gay !
STANZAS.
Since Fortune's smiles too often give
Respect to fools, to knaves renown,
Let Reason bid me calmly live,
And Fortune mark me with a frown !
For who would buy the wretched state
Which conscious vice or dullness knows ?
Or who be vainly, meanly great,
With power that from oppression grows?
While Nature, with a partial hand,
Her darling children beckons forth;
While fools and knaves usurp command,
And Fortune flies from modest worth !
Then give, oh ! Fortune ! all thy store
To insects of a sunny day ;
While I the paths of truth explore,
And smile the darkest hour away.
WORST OF ELLS. 157
THE WORST OF ILLS.
What wounds more deep than arrows keen
Piercing the heart subdued ;
What renders life a dreary scene ?
Thy sting, Ingratitude !
For every pain that man can know
Has still an antidote for wo,
Save where Ingratitude is found
Giving its deep and deadly wound.
Does Love neglected, pining sad,
On every joy obtrude ;
Does Pleasure fly the bosom glad,
Stung by Ingratitude?
Oh, yes ! for what is life to those
Who find no hour of soft repose,
Who trace in every path that weed
Which bids the feeling bosom bleed ?
Thou fiend Ingratitude ! to thee
All lesser evils bend ;
Thou potent shaft of destiny,
Where will thy poisons end ?
The wretch who smarts beneath thy fang,
Day after day endures the pang,
And finds there is no balm to cure
Thy wound, for ever deep and sure !
Where'er in life's precarious scene
My weary feet have stray' d,
Thou hast my taunting follower been,
In sunshine and in shade.
In poverty I found thee ever
The bonds of social feelings sever ;
And when 1 sunk by grief subdued,
I felt thy wound, Ingratitude !
I found thee in the smile of Love,
In Friendship's sacred vest,
In rustic meekness saw thee move,
Pois'ning the untaught breast.
When Fortune, often dull and blind,
Heap'd splendour on the vulgar mind,
Scattering on pride and vice her favour,
Ingratitude, 1 found thee ever 1
Thou imp destructive ! bane of rest,
Turn from my aching heart ;
Nor still in artful kindness drest,
Thy fatal stings impart.
This bosom, long assail'd by thee,
No more thy victim slave shall be ;
No more shall be by thee subdued,
Thou worst of ills — Ingratitude !
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158
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
THE GAMESTER.
Sat, what is he, whose haggard eye
Scarce dares to meet the morning ray ?
Who, trembling, would, but cannot fly
From man, and from the busy day ?
Mark how his lip is fevered o'er,
Behold his cheek, how deathly it appears !
See ! how his bloodshot eye-balls pour
A burning torrent of unpitied tears !
Now watch the varying gesture wild,
See how his tortured bosom heaves !
Behold Misfortune's wayward child,
For whom no kindred bosom grieves !
Despised, suspected, ruin'd, lost,
His fortune, health, and reputation flown—
On Misery's stormy ocean tost,
Condemn'd to curse his fate— end curse alone !
Once were his prospects bright and gay,
And Independence blest his hours ;
This was the smooth and sunny way
Where tip-toe Pleasure scatter' d flowers:
Love bound his brow with thornless sweets
And Friendship, smiling, filled his cup of joy :
Now, not a friend the wanderer meets,
, For, like a wolf— he wanders to destroy !
All day upon a couch of thorn
His weary feverish limbs recline ;
All night, distracted and forlorn,
He hovers round the fateful shrine ;
Eager to seize, with grasping hands,
The slender pittance of each easy fool,
He links himself with caitiff bands,
„ And learns the lesson of the Gamester's school !
One hour elate with ill-got gold,
And dazzled by the shining ore,
In plenitude of joys behold
The Prodigal display his store !
The next in poverty and fear,
He hides him, trembling at approaching fate,
While greedy creditors appear,
And with remorseless rage lurk round his gate.
Then comes the horror-breeding hour !
While recreant Suicide attend? ;
Or Madness, with impetuous power,
The scene of desolation ends !
Upon* his grave no parent mourns,
v No widow'd love laments with graceful wo ;
No dawn of joy for him returns, [below !
For Heaven denies that peace his frenzy lost
MY NATIVE HOME.
O'er breezy hill and woodland glade,
At morning's dawn or closing day,
In summer's flaunting pomp array' d,
Or pensive moonlight's silver grey,
The wretch in sadness still shall roam
Who wanders from his native home.
While at the foot of some old tree,
As meditation soothes his mind,
Lull'd by the hum of wandering bee,
Or rippling stream, or whispering wind,
His vagrant fancy still shall roam,
And lead him to his native home.
Though Love a fragrant couch may weave,
And Fortune heap a festive board,
Still Memory oft would turn to grieve,
And Reason scorn the splendid board;
While he, beneath the proudest dome,
Would languish for his native home.
To him the rushy roof is dear,
.And sweetly calm the darkest glen ;
While noise, and pomp, and power, appear,
At best, the glittering plagues of men ;
Unsought by those who never roam,
Forgetful of their native home.
Let me to summer shades retire,
With meditation and the muse ;
Or round the social winter fire
The glow of temper'd mirth diffuse :
Though winds may howl and waters roam,
l still shall bless my native home.
THE SUMMER DAY.
Ah ! who beneath the burning ray
Can bear the long, long summer's day ?
Who 'mid the dust and scorching sun,
Content, his daily race will run ?
And yet, when winter's icy breath
Flies o'er the white and frozen heath,
The wanderer shudders to behold
The dreary scene, and shrinks with cold.
When drifted snow across the plain
Spreads desolation's chill domain,
The Traveller, sighing, seems to say,
" Ah ! would it were a summer's day !"
Yet when the sun flames far and wide,
He hastens to the wood's dark side,
And, shelter 'd by embowering trees,
Sighs for the fresh and cooling breeze t
When dusty roads impede his way, 1
And all around the fervid ray
Scorches the dry and yellow heath,
Unvisited by Zephyr's breath :
Or, when the torrent wildly pours,
When the fierce blast impetuous roars,
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THIS WINTHY BAT. &c.
159
Man, still on changes fondly bent,
Still murmurs, sad and discontent !
THE WINTRY DAY.
Is it in mansions rich and gay,
On downy beds, or couches warm,
That Nature owns the wintry day,
And shrinks to hear the howling storm ?
Ah! No!
'Tis on the bleak and barren heath,
Where Misery feels the ice of death,
As to the dark and freezing grave
Her children, not a friend to save,
Unheeded go !
Is it in chambers silken drest,
At tables which profusions heap,
Is it on pillows soft to rest,
In dreams of long and balmy sleep?
Ah! No!
'Tis in the rushy hut obscure,
Where Poverty's low sons endure,
And, scarcely daring to repine,
On a straw pallet, mute, recline,
O'erwhelm'd with wo f J
J s it to flaunt in warm attire,
To laugh, to feast, and dance, and sing;
To crowd around the blazing fire,
And make the roof with revels ring?
Ah! No!
'Tis on the prison's flinty floor,
'Tis where the deafening whirlwinds roar;
'Tis when the sea-boy, on the mast,
Hears the wave bounding to the blast,
And looks below !
'Tis in a cheerless naked room,
Where Misery's victims wait their doom,
Where a fond mother famish' d dies,
While forth a frantic father flies,
Man's desperate foe !
Is it where gamesters thronging round,
Their shining heaps of wealth display?
Where fashion's giddy tribes are found,
Sporting their senseless hours away ?
Ah! No!
'Tis in the silent spot obscure,
Where, forced all sorrows to endure,
Pale Genius learns— oh ! lesson sad !
To court the vain, and on the bad
False praise bestow !
Where the neglected hero sighs*
Where Hope, exhausted, silent dies,
Where Virtue starves, by Pride % oppressM,
'Till every stream that warms the breast
Foi bears to flov\ !
LINES
WRITTEN ON A SICK-BED, 1707.
Another night of feverish pain
Has slowly pass'd away !
I see the morning light again ;
What does it bring ? another day
Of hope— delusive — vain !
Another night of busy thought
Has stolen uncheerly on !
4nd what has rosy morning brought?
Is anguish with the lone hour gone,
The hour with darkness fraught ?
I see again the cheerful light,
But still my soul's forlorn !
The sun-beam glitters, all is bright,
Soft dews the fragrant fields adorn,.
But still to me 'tis night !
A sullen gloom o erwhelms my mind,
While slow the hours creep on j
For wheresoe'er I gaze I find
Dark weeds to feast my soul upon,
With Memory's thorns entwined.
I see Deceit in sainted guise
Of holy Friendship, smile ;
I mark Oppression's eager eyes,
And tremble as the breath of Guile
Assumes Affection's sighs.
Then, bed of sickness ! thou to me
No keener pangs canst bring;
I have familiar grown with thee ;
And while the scorpion sorrows sting
My soul no joy can see.
Yet, bed of sickness ! while my breast
In feverish throbs shall rise
My cheek shall smile-— and endless rest
Anticipating Hope supplies
Hereafter— with the blest !
„ ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY
FOR THE WINTER SEASON, 1799.
Ye leafless woods, ye hedge-rows bare,
Farewell! awhile farewell !
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igO MRS. ROBINSON'S
Now busy scenes my thoughts must share,
Scenes of low guile,
Where shrewd Hypocrisy shall smile.
And empty Folly dwell !
Ye rising floods, ye mountains bleak,
Farewell ! awhile farewell !
The din of mingling tones I seek ;
The midnight gloom
I ehange, for the light taper'd room
Where sounds unmeaning swell.
Ye meadows wide, that skirt the stream,
Farewell ! awhile farewell !
Ye green banks, where the summer beam,
So rich and gay,
Among the fragrant buds would play
Adown the silent dell.
Now dark and dreary hours I see,
1 hear the deafening noise ;
The troublous scene returns to me,
Who sickening sigh
For the soft breeze, and summer sky,
With all their glowing joys !
Yet, yet, where'er my course I bend,
May every hour be blest
With the sweet converse of a friend!
The smile that shows
A calm content for human woes:
Then, splendour take the rest !
WRITTEN
AT BRIGHTON.
The evening sun now sinks serene,
Flush'd ocean's glowing waves between ;
The purpling sky is fading fast,
With tints of varying hue o'ercast ;
The sultry breezes fan the deep,
And bid the restless billows sleep ;
The glooms of night will soon o'erspread
The blue hill's solitary head;V
And all of nature's tribe shall rest,
All but the lover's aching breast !
Now o'er yon dark and* rocky bed
The sea weed waves its sable head !
The moon her silver crescent rears,
To deck with modest light the spheres ;
The moaning of the distant deep
Marks where the twilight breezes sleep ;
And hark ! the sea-bird's lonely cry
Awakes the lover's heart to sigh !
POEMS.
STANZAS TO REST.
When hidden fears the bosom tears,
And love no longer cheats the breast,
Hope comes to break the spells of care,
And give the tortured bosom rest.
The world looks gay, the shadows past,
All nature smiles, by Fancy drest :
But soon the day of bliss o'ercast
Will prove— how short a lover's rest !
The gentle breeze that fans the main,
Scarce seems to move the halcyon's* nest,
Soon yields to winter's potent reign,
And storms succeed the transient rest.
Then let the wretch, whom Pleasure fli< s,
Ne'er think that Rapture's sons are blesf,
For Apathy alone supplies
The sweet, the envied balm of rest !
A WISH.
Heaven knows I never would repine,
Though Fortune's fiercest frowns were mine,
If Fate would grant, that o'er my tomb
One little laurel branch might bloom,
And Memory sometimes wander near
To bid it live— and drop a tear !
I never would, for all the show
That tinsel splendour can bestow,
Or waste a thought, or heave a sigh,
For well I know 'tis pageantry !
Soon fading to the grave, 'tis o'er—
A pleasing phantom, seen no more !
I ask not worldly power, to rule
The drooping child of misery's school :
To tyrannize o'er him whom Fate
Has destined to a lowly state,
To me would prove a source of wo
More keen than such a wretch could know.
Oh ! did the little great endure
The pangs they seldom stoop to cure !
Could pamper'd luxury then find
The charm to sooth the wounded mind !
The loftiest, proudest, would confess
The sweetest power— the power to bles3.
Give me the sensate mind, that knows
The vast extent of human woes;
And then, for independence, grant
The means to cheer the child of want :
Though small the pittance, mine should be,
The boundless joys of Sympathy !
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FARE WE1A fO OLEWOWBN.
But though ungentle Fortune flies,
And envious Fate her smile denies,
My he 11 1 will never cease to feel
The wounds it vainly hopes to heal :
Then Rite, to prove thy rage is o'er,
Ah ! let me die— and feel no more !
FAREWELL TO GLENOWEN.
Farkwbll, dear Gleaewen, adieu to thy moun-
tains)
Where oft I have wander'd to welcome the
day j
Farewell to thy forests, thy crystalline fountains,
Which stray through the valley, and moan as
they stray.
Cer wide foamy waters I'm destined to travel,
A poor simple exile, forlorn and unknown ;
Yet while the dark Fates shall my fortune un-
ravel* [own.
My thoughts, my affections snail still he thy
Thy cities proud Gallia, thy wide-spreading-
treasures,
Thy valleys, where Nature luxuriantly roves,
May bid the heart, dancing to Fancy's wild
measures,
Forget, for a moment, its own native groves.
But where is the bosom that sighs not in sorrow,
Estranged from dear objects to wander alone :
Still counting the moments from morrow to
morrow,
A poor weary traveller, lost and unknown.
Sweet vistas of myrtle, and paths of gay roses,
And hills deck'd with vineyards, and wood-
lands with shade,
Fresh baiiks of young violets, where Fancy
reposes,
And courts gentle slumbers her visions to aid ;
Vbe dark silent grotto, the soft-flowing fountains,
Where Nature's own music soft murmurs
along;
The sun-beams that dance on the pine-covered
mountains, "
May waken to rapture their own native throng.
But thou, dear Glenowen ! can'st bring sweeter
pleasure,
All barren and bleak as thy summits appear ;
And though thou can'st boast of no rich gaudy
treasure,
Still memory traces thy charms with a tear !
TO SPRING. 161
The keen blast may howl o'er thy valteya and
mountains, [tree ;
And strip the rich verdure that mantles each
And winter may bind In cold fetters thy foun-
tains,
But still thou art dear, O Glenowen ! to me.
TO SPRING.
Written after a Winter of ill health in the Year
1800.
Life glowing season! odour breathing Spring I
Deck'd in cerulean splendours, vivid, warm,
Shedding soft lustre on the rosy hours,
And calling forth their beauties ! balmy Spring !
To thee the vegetating world begins
To pay fresh homage. Every southern gale
Whispers thy coming ; every tepid shower
Revivifies thy charms. The mountain breeze
Wafts th' ethereal essence to the vale,
While the low vale returns its fragrant hoard
With ten-fold sweetness. When the dawn tin-
folds
Its purple splendours 'mid the dappled clouds;
Thy influence cheers the soul. When noon un-
its burning canopy, spreading the plain [lifts
Of Heaven's own radiance with one vast of light,
Thou smil'st tmmpbaat ! Every little flower
Seems to exult in thee, delicious Spring,
Luxuriant nurse of Nature ! By the stream
That winds its swift course down ib© mountain's
side,
Thy progeny are seen,—- young primroses*
And all the varying buds of wildest birth,
Dotting the green slope gaily. On the thorn
Which arms the hedge-row, the young birdo in-
vite
With merry minstrelsy, shrilly, and mazed
With winding cadences ; now quick, now sunk
In the low twitter'd song. The evening sky
Reddens the distant main, catching the sail
Which slowly lessens, and with crimson hue
Varying the sea-green wave ; while the* young
Scarce visible amid the warmer tints [moon,
Of western splendours, slowly lifts her brow,
Modest and iey-lastred ! O'er the plain
The light dews rise, sprinkling the thistle's head,
And hanging in clear drops on the wild waste
Of broom y fragrance. Season of delight !
Thou soul-expanding power, whose wondrous
glow
Can bid all Nature smile !■— Ah } why to me
Come unregarded, undeligbtmg still
This ever mourning bosom ? So I've seen
The sweetest flowerets bind the ley urn,
The brighest sun-beams glitter on the g*0f
X v^
y
^
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162
MRS. ROBINSON'S FORMS.
And the soft zephyr kiss the troublous main
With whispered murmurs. Yes, to me, O
Spring]
Thou com'st un welcomed by a smile of joy ;
To me ! slow withering to that silent grave,
Where all is blank and dreary. Yet once more
The Spring eternal of the soul shall dawn,
Unvisited by clouds, by storms, by change,
Radiant and unexhausted ! Then, ye buds,
Ye plumy minstrels, and ye balmy gales,
Adorn your little hour, and give your joys
To bless the fond world-loving traveller,
Who smiling measures the long flowery path
That leads to Death ! For to such wanderers
Life is a busy, pleasing, cheerful dream,
And the last hour unwelcome. Not to me,
O ! not to me, stern Death, art thou a foe :
Thou art the welcome messenger that brings
A passport to a blest and long repose !
THE EXILE.
Lost on a rock of dreadful height,
And shrouded by the gloom of night,
A weary exile stood !
No wintry star its feeble ray
Shot forth to point the craggy way, [flood.
Or guide his devious steps to shun the foamy
Above, the warring tempest howl'd,
And near the ravenous she- wolf prowl' d,
A cataract plunged below !
He shrunk .'—the bleak blast yell'd around
He totter'd o'er the gulf profound,
While every startled sense was agonized by wo.
For robb'd of joy, of peace bereft,
Adversity no balsam left
To heal the stings of scorn ;
No sigh of love his pain beguiled,
On him no friend, no kindred, smiled,
To draw from Memory's wound affliction's
rankling thorn !
Disdain'd by Fortune, stung by Art,
And tortured with a feeling heart,
Which Hope had left to break !
His sigh was lost amid the blast,
And Fancy, maddening on the past,
Bade tears, corroding tears, steal down his witb-
er'd cheek.
Then why should he, with haggard eye,
Start from the she- wolf prowling nigh,
Or dread the gulph below?
Why totter o'er the dreadful steep,
And bear the pelting storm, and weep,
When one short step would end the tyranny of
wo?
Poor exile ! why such fears endure,
When Nature's hand presents a cure,
Which only death can give ?
Methinks the wretched wanderer cries—
" Guilt seeks the grave— the coward dies,
While virtue nobly dares to suffer and to live !'
STANZAS.
When the bleak blast of winter howls o'er the
blue hill,
And the valley is stripp'd of its verdant array,
When the moon faintly gleams o'er the frost-
silver' d spray, [rill :
And the yellow leaves flit o'er the ice mantled
The poor simple offspring of labour and care,
By his turf-lighted hearth sits resign'd to bis
lot,
While the flame of affection illumines his cot,
And the often-told tale cheers the gloom of de-
spair.
For him the blest beam of the soul speaking eye,
The smile of pure love, have their raptures in
store;
And though the wild storm round his threshold
shaU roar,
He sinks to soft slumber, and dreams but of joy.
No hopeless fond passion corrodes in his breast,
His rude rushy pillow invites to repose ;
No couch of light down and rich fragrance he
knows,
But he knows what is sweeter— a pallet of rest !
For what are the pleasures the world can be-
stow— [fuse ?
The gay mirthful scene, or the banquet pro-
What the laurel of Fame, or the song of the
Muse, [wo ?
When the heart bleeds in silence, the victim of
O'er each prospect of bliss that fond fancy il-
lumes, [vere,
The fix'd brow of Prudence frowns sadly se-
Whilemy cheek, warm with blushes, is chill 'd
by Love's tear, [sumes :
And the sigh of Regret fans the flame that con-
For, perish the. heart that can meanly desire
The cold balm of pity to soothe its despair !
My passion shall scorn the dear object to share,
And, exulting in silence, shall proudly expire !
Yes, in silence, proud silence, I'll muse o'er his
worth,
Though reflection shall steal the faint rose
from my cheek,
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REFLECTIONS.
163
Though my eye's faded lustre its poison shall
speak,
And my heart-bursting sighs bend my frame to
the earth !
Then rest, my sad bosom— henceforth be at
peace ! [o'er :
Thy hopes and thy anguish will shortly be
Stern Prudence shall frown on thy passion no
more, [cease !
For in Death's cold embrace all thy sorrows will
REFLECTIONS.
" To-morrow, and to morrow, and to-morrow,
Creepn in this petty paco from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time."
Shakspearb's Macbeth.
Ah ! who has power to say,
To-morrow's sun shall warmer glow,
And o'er this gloomy vale of wo
Diffuse a brighter ray ?
Ah ! who is ever sure,
Though all that can the soul delight
This hour enchants the wondering sight,
These raptures will endure ?
Is there in life's dull toil,
One certain moment of repose,
One ray to dissipate our woes,
And bid Reflection smile?
What is the mind of man ?
A chaos where the passions blend,
Unconscious where the mass will end,
Or when it first began !
In childhood's thoughtless hours
We frolic through the sportive day ;
£ach path enchanting, sunny, gay,
All deck'd with gaudy flowers !
In life's maturer prime
We wander still in search of peace ;
And, as our weary toils increase,
Fade in the glooms of time.
.From scene to scene we stray,
Still courting Pleasure's fickle smile,
While she, delighting to beguile,
Still farther glides away.
We seek Hope's gentle aid,
We think the lovely phantom pours
Her balmy incense on those flowers,
Which blossom but to fade !
We court love's thrilling dart,
And when we think our joys supreme,
We find its raptures but a dream-
Its boon, a wounded heart !
We pant for glittering Fame,
And when pale Envy blots the page
That might have charm' d a future age,
We find 'tis but a name.
We toil for paltry ore,
And when we gain the golden prize,
And Death appears ! — with aching eyes
We view the useless store.
We bask in Friendship's beam,
But when malignant cares assail,
And Fortune's fickle favours fail,
We find 'tis but a dream !
We pine for idle joy ;
Intemperance leads to sure decay ;
The brightest prospects fade away,
The sweetest— -soonest cloy !
How frail is beauty's bloom !
The dimpled cheek— the sparkling eye,
Scarce seen, before their wonders fly
To decorate a tomb !
Then, since this fleeting breath
Is but the zephyr of a day,
Let conscience make each minute gay,
And brave the shafts of Death !
And let the generous mind
With pity view the erring throng,
Applaud the right, forgive the wrong,
And feel for all mankind.
For who, alas, shall say,
" To-morrow's sun shall warmer glow,
And o'er this gloomy vale of wo
Diffuse a brighter ray."
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THE
PROGRESS OF LIBERTY.
BOOK FIRST.
Hail, Liberty sublime ! hail godlike power,
Coeval with the skies, to earth new born ;
Thou parent of delight, thou source refined
Of human energy ! Thou fountain vast
From whose immortal stream the soul of man
Imbibes celestial fervour ! But for thee,
O ! best and noblest attribute of God !
Who would the coil endure of mortal wo,
The frowns of fortune, or the taunts of pride ;
Float with the gale, or buffet with the storm j
Who labour through the busy dream of time,
War with oppression, or resist the base !
Opposing ever, and by each opposed,
To count succeeding conflicts ; and to die t
Hail, Liberty ! legitimate of Heaven !
Who, on a mountain's solitary brow
First started into life ; thy sire, old Time ;
Thy mother, blooming, innocent and gay,
The genius of the scene ! Thy beauteous form
She gave to nature ; on whose fragrant lap,
Nursed by the breath of morn, each glowing vein
Soon throbVd with healthful streams. Thy
sparkling eyes [limb,
Snatch'd radiance from the sun! while every
By custom unrestrain'd, grew firm and strong.
Thy midnight cradle, rock'd by howling winds,
Lull'd thee to wholesome rest. Thy beverage
pure,
The wild brook gushing from the rocky steep,
And foaming, unimpeded, down the vale.
For thee no victim bled ; no groan of death
Stole on the sighing gale to pitying Heaven !
Thy food the herbage sweet, or wandering vine
Bursting its luscious bounds, and scattering wide
The purple stream neotareous. O'er the hills,
Veil'd with an orient canopy sublime,
'Twas thine to rove unshackled ; or to- weave
Young mountain flowers to deck thy flowing
hair,
But not confine it. Where thy footsteps fell,
No vagrant bud was crush'd j for swift and
light
As summer breezes, flew thy active limbs,
< , Scarce brushing the soft dews. Thy song divine,
Warbled with all the witchery of sound,
Welcomed the varied year; nor mark'd the
change
Of passing seasons : for to thee the morn
(Whether Favonius oped the sunny east,
Flaunting its lustrous harbinger of light,
Or slow the paly glimpse of winter's eye
Peer'd on the frozen brow of sickly day),
Still wore an aspect lovely ! Evening's star,
Spangling the purple splendours of the west,
And glowing, midst infinity of space,
Temper'd by twilight's tears, still smiled on thee.
And bade thee dream of rapture ! Nor could
night,
With all its glooms opaque, its howling blasts-
Thunders, appalling to the guilty soul—
Or vivid fires, winging the shafts of death,
Shake the soft slumbers of thy halcyon home.
The wild was thy domain ! at morn's approach
Thy bounding form uprose to meet the sun,
Thyself its proud epitome ! For thou,
Like the vast orb, wert destined to illume
The mist-encircled world j to warm the soul,
To call the powers of teeming reason forth,
And ratify the laws by nature made !
Long didst thou live, unruling and unruled,
The reveller of nature's wide domain J
Till weary of thy solitude sublime,
And seeking bliss, beyond the bliss of Heaven,
Thy truant steps the mazy haunts of men
Unheeded trod. Thy mighty voice was heard
Amidst the groans of anguish and despair,
The din of revelry, or silence deep
Of dungeon horrors ; while high-hearing Pride,
First taught to feel, her ghastly visage wrapp'd
In Superstition's cowl. Ambition next
Assumed the mask of Valour ; till Revenge
Mock'd the shrewd spoiler. Terror then rush'd
forth;
Her eyes glared wildly through the specious tears
Of holy Sorrow ; while her livid lip
Mutter'd relentless curses, each approved
By Folly, Cruelty, Oppression, Pride:
Confederate fiends, that trampled on the laws
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THB PROGRESS OF UBERTY .
Of bleeding Nature* While they stood aghast,
Thy bosom bare, and form of godlike mould, .
Burst on their startled gaze! they shrunk ap-
pall'd,
Trembling and pale ! But soon the torpid spell
Of broad- eyed Horror vanish'd, and each arm
Was raised for slaughter. Legions bold uprose,
While fierce Despair a frantic phalanx form'd
To intercept thy path ! The daring host
At thy command gave way. Still, urged by fate,
Onward thou cam'st, o'er dins stupendous;
where [wave
Dark-brow'd Deceit .hung brooding o'er the
That lash'd the sands below. Down the dread
gul4
Oblivion's black domain, unnumber'd fiends
Hurl'd shrieking victims; spirits that rebell'd,
And spurn'd Oppression's chain. Upon a rock
(Which seem'd the top-moot beacon of the
world),
A lofty fabric stood, whose ebon towers
Shadow'd their ponderous gates. At thy ap-
proach
The bolts flew wide, and with a thundering crash
The scene disclosed ! There on his iron throne
Terrifically frown'd despotic Power,
A giant strong ! his vassals, bound in chains
(Artfully twined with wreaths of opiate flowers,
Through which the clanking links sad music
made),
Stood trembling at his gaze. Beneath his feet
Pale captives groan'd ; while shadowy spectres
Of persecuted innocence and worth ; [dire,
Of genius, bent to an untimely grave ;—
Of Ethiops, burnt beneath their native sun,
Their countless wounds wide yawning for re-
venge,
Rose in a mighty host,— and yell'd despair !—
The flinty fabric shook ! the thundering
165
Frown'd, dark as Erebus ! upon its base
The Pandemonium rock'd ! while withering
bolts
From Heaven's red citadel fell fast around.
The vex'd sea, swoln above its towering walls,
Foam'd madly furious. The gigantic fiend
Waved high his adamantine wand in vain ;
Thy potent grasp palsied the monster's arm,
And hurl'd him fathoms down his native hell \
AH earth convulsive yawn'd; while Nature's
hand
Crush'd the infernal throne, and in its stead,
A thousand temples rose, each dedicate
To Valour, Reason, Liberty, and Fame !
Now from her dark and solitary cell
Suspicion started, vigilant and shrewd,
Fear in her eye, and malice in her breast :
She scowl'd around, trembling, perpkx'd,
amazed,
Scarce daring to believe, yet more afraid
To doubt her startled senses. Every breeze
That whisper'd peril to the ear of night,
Bathing its ebon cheek with humid fears,
Bade her be wary : every blushing dawn
Beheld a scene of blood. The public streets
Flow'd with ensanguined streams : the prisons
groan'd
With vengeful minions ; while the subtle slaves
Aim'd at the breast of Freedom. For a time
Valour withheld the desolating sword,
And Pity offer' d to the lips of Pride
The cup capacious, fill'd with essence pure,
Drawn from the fount of Reason. Shrewd
Revenge,
With all the restless demons of her train,
Thirsting for blood, the sacred pledge received ;
And while the eye of Pity turn'd *o Heaven,
Infused a deadly poison ! on themselves
The fatal vengeance fell ; -they drank— and died !
Now the broad eye of Freedom, like the sun,
Flamed on the northern world ! an awful beam
Descending mark'd the solitary path
To the dim cloister, where the vestal sad
Wither'd through life's dull hour in lingering
death ;
Her spring of youth chill'd by untimely frost,
And all the warm perceptions of her soul
Spell-bound by sorrow! What were her pur-
suits?
Fasting and prayer ; long nights of meditation ;
And days consumed in tears. The matin songs,
By repetition dull, familiar grown,
Pass'd o'er her lip mechanically cold,
And little mark'd devotion. The wing'd choir,
Blithe airy travellers of the sphery climes,
Hover'd around the grey and mouldering spires
Of her dim habitation. Could their songs,
Their dulcet warblings and wild mazy trills,
Soothe the wan mourner's breast, or prompt her
thoughts
Anticipating freedom ? The cold moon,
Scattering nocturnal incense on the world,
Stole o'er her lonely prison, sadly pale,
Robed in a starry vest ; her crescent bright
Silver'd the ivy battlements ; the haunts
Of that lone bird, whose melancholy note,
Breaking the solitude, from feverish dreams
Startled her aching breast. The fervid noon
No streamy light bestow'd to gild the cell
Where bigot Frenzy barr'd the icy grate,
And spread perpetual horrors ! Day retired ;
The gaudy monarch of unbounded space,
Furling his ample vest of blushing gold,
Hied to his dusky bed ; the vesper bell,
Pale twilight's sound funereal, roused her soul
From transient spells of contemplation sad,
By small, and silver sounds ; vibrations sweet !
Yet not more sweet than solemn. Hapless
maid!
On the cold marble of her cell she kneel'd
To chant her midnight orisons, and mourn,
The slave confess'd of passion and despair !
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166
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Twas hers to breathe upon her cross the sigh
Of unavailing grief, while love's pure torch,
In the mild radiance of her humid eyes,
Gleams like an April sun through passing
showers,
To show another idol in her breast ! [veil
Her smooth cheek reddens through the snowy
That half conceals its bloom : ah ! transient
bloom!
The self-reproving flush of conscious love,
Which, like the wood-wild rose, unfolds its hues,
And drest with morning's tears, expires unseen !
Counting her beads, she number'd not her
prayers;
s Yet who can blame the vestal's wandering
thoughts ?
Could the day past, to her reflecting mind
Show consolation ? Could the relique^cold
Chill the warm pulse that throbs within her
breast,
Or chasten its rebellion, while no gleam
Of peace was hers, save that which hope unfolds,
The quiet of the grave? O ! beamless grave !
Thou sombre curtain, which o'er life's dull scene
Throws blank oblivion ; while the busy throng
Are bound in apathy, 'till labouring time
Dissolves them into nothing ! Yet the spark
Of immortality, escaped the bounds
Of its dark prison-clay, roves, unconfined,
Through regions infinite, and worlds unknown !
Then joyful is the hour, when, to the wretch
(Whose feet ne'er wander'd from sequester'd
haunts,
Who shut from nature's wondrous scenery,
Breathes but a living spectre,) death shall come,
Robb'd of his terrors, like a herald gay,
To force the frozen gates of bigot zeal,
Closed by oppression's hand, and barr'd by pride.
Ask the pale vestal's meditating soul,
Was it for this her rosy infancy
Was nursed with tender care ? Her perfect form,
Fashion'd by all the graces and the loves,
Rear'd to the opening summer oT delight,
A model of perfection ? Was her mind,
Stored with the prodigality of nature,
Expanded, warm'd, enlighten'd, and inspired,
For this to perish ? Can the sable vest,
The lawn transparent, or the pendant cross,
Deceive th' Omniscient ! while her beating heart
Proclaims her form'd for rational delight ?
Preposterous sacrifice ! Sweet fading flower !
Condemn'd to waste its bloom in one dull speck
Of freezing solitude ; to lift its head,
Lovely as spring ! Yet, ere the summer sun
Unfolds its odorous breast, — to droop, and die !
'Mid the grey horrors of his narrow cell,
The wasted monk is seen. His silvery beard
Falls like Helvetia's snow, half down his breast,
Shading his frozen heart. A torpid spell
Benumbs life's fountain, while the feeble pulse
Marks the slow progress of time's weary course,
With languid circulation. Every clock
That sounds the passing hour, appears the knell
Which warns him to oblivion. A coarse garb
Hangs round his meagre frame; his hollow
cheek,
Shrivell'd with frequent fasting, as with age,
Scarce hides his bony jaws. Beneath his cowl,
His dimly-gleaming eyes, sunk in their cells,
And glazed with midnight watching, ask of
Heaven
A solitary grave. Poor, breathing ghost !
Tell that still questioner, thy weary mind,
'Twas not for cloister'd, visionary glooms,
For castigation arid sequester'd hours,
For cold inanity, life's conscious death,
That nature gave thee strength in busy scenes
To act a nobler part. Misguided monk !
Thou wretched slave of bigotry and fraud !
Was it to gabble o'er a canting tale,
To trim the wasting lamp, to wear away
The flinty pavement with thy wounded knees,
To scourge thy meagre flesh, embrace cold saints,
To starve thy appetites, till every bone
Shows what a wretched, ghastly thing thou art,
Robb'd of thy outward form ? Was it for this
That reason dawn'd upon thy opening youth;
And science smiled, while love, with sportive
mien,
Danced gaily on, leading expectant joys
Which told thee thou wert man ? O ! did the
spark,
Th' electric spark which kindles fancy's fire,
Ne'er in perspective bright unfold such scenes
As bade thy bosom glow, ambition warm'd,
Or melt in rapturous visions ? What art thou ?
Deluded, sad, forgotten ! Like a tree
Placed on a blasted desert, where no sun
Visits the sapless trunk, but all around
One gloom perpetual reigns. Where are thy
powers ?
Where the perception strong, the active mind,
Th' ethereal essence that expands the heart ;
The depth of knowledge, and the will to act?
Where is the stamp which marks th' immortal
soul,
And places thee above the growling brute ?
Shrouded by superstition, chain'd by fear,
Benumb'd by long seclusion from the world ;
While naught remains, but a lean wither' d form,
Inert, enfeebled, useless, and debased !
The Indian wild, that roves the pathless steep,
Chasing the famished wolf, or savage bear,
Anticipates the hour when to his hut
He drags the bleeding spoil, and shouts and sings,
In social feasting with his untaught tribes ;
The blazing fire encircled, sheds a glow
On the brown cheek, and gilds the gloomy hour
Of wintry desolation ! — O'er his hut,
Scoop'd in the snowy ridge or flinty rock,
The blast howls horrible, while the gaunt beast,
That roves for prey, fills up the sullen pause
With yell'd defiance. — On the distant shore
The white surge dashes, with a fatal sound.
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While the wreck'd mariner the slippery steep
Climbs desperately bold. Listening he hears
The deafening din of elements combined;
Where clouds embattled mingle ; while beneath
Waves roll on waves, curling their tyrant heads
In wild fantastic fury. From the cliff
The sea-bird screams, while the half-shrouded
moon ■
Throws its dim light upon the world below,
Frozen and desolate. , Yet e'en there
Man is the friend of man ! While the rude grasp,
The deafening war-hoop, or the uncouth garb,
Shows, with fantastic gestures, the caprice
Of ever-varying nature. But, for thee,
O solitary monk ! no cheerful hour
Shall mark the summer morn, or deck the wing
Of time with sunny lustre ! all, yes all,
To thee shall seem a blank j a dreadful blank,
Veiling the face of nature, while her voice
Whispers reproof; reproof that will be heard
E'en in the cloister's melancholy shade ;
Till death shall close the tablet of thy fate,
Nor leave one friend, to pity or to praise.
Explore the dungeon's gloom, where, all alone,
The homicide expires ; the guilty wretch,
Whose hands are steep'd in gore ; whose timid
soul,
The mild and pitying angel, Hope, forsakes,
While all the demons of despair and hell
Howl in his startled ears ! His weary hours
-Have many a season pass'd, since to his cheek
The breeze of Heaven gave freshness ; since his
Imbibed the ethereal spirit of the morn, [lip
Or balmy sleep, the opiate of the mind,
Lull'd the sick sense of sorrow. If his brain
Snatches a transitory dream of peace ;
If, wearied by perpetual, painful thought,
A short, but broken slumber fills the throue
Of tottering intellect : sudden and fierce
Some shriek appalling, or some spectre dire,
Taunts him to waking madness, and again
The mental fever rages ! Down his cheek
The scalding tear rolls fast. His bloodshot eyes
Glare motionless and wide, as if their sense
Turn'd inward on his soul. His quivering lip,
Drain' d of the life-stream by the conscious fiend,
Mutters a brief appeal to angry Heaven,
Then freezes into death. No friendly hand
Closes the beamless eye : no kindred breast
Sustains the livid cheek, grief-worn and mark'd
With water' fretted channels. His bow'd head,
Silver'd by sorrow in the prime and pride
Of lusty youth, shows like a goodly tree,
Frost- nipp'd and drooping. Wretched homi-
cide!
Whom did he lull ? The minion of his foe ;
The sordid steward, whose infuriate rage
Snatch 'd from his helpless babes the well-earn' d
store
Of many a toilsome hour ; the pamper'd slave,
Whose mind, grown callous by oppression's task,
OF LIBERTY. 157
RepelTd compnnctuons pity.— .Ask thy heart,
Divine philanthropist i who raised his hand
Against the caitiff's life? The caitiff's self!
The petty tyrant, who with barbarous wronrs
Propell'd him on to sin. For Reason's breast,
Arm'd 'gainst oppression, in resistance strong,
Can combat giant fierceness ; and though oft
By subtle malice vanquish'd or betray'd,
Still owns the plea of nature ! In his low cell
The patient child of persecution sits,
Pensively sad. His uncomplaining tongue,
His steadfast eye, his lean and pallid cheek,
Graced with the stamp of dignified disdain,
Wait the approach of death. No haggard glance
Ruffles the placid orb, whose lustre, dimm'd '
By dungeon vapours, like a dewy star, [lip
Gleams 'midst surrounding darkness. On his
Smiles innocence, enthroned in modest pride,
And eloquently silent I On his breast
His folded arms (shielding his guiltless heart
From the damp poisons of a living grave),
Are firmly interwoven ; while his soul,
Calm as the martyr at the kindling pyre,
Holds strong with resignation. Who will now
Breathe the contagious mischiefs of his cell ?
Who quit the gorgeous splendours of the sun,
To watch with him the slowly- wasting lamp,
Dim with obtrusive vapours? Who will share
The bread of misery, and with the breath
Of sympathy more palatable make
The cup of human sorrow ? Who resign
The midnight revelry of happier scenes,
Turn from the banquet and illumined hall,
The throne of flaunting beauty, gaily deck'd,
The costly shows of life, to count with him
The sijent hours of anguish? Tell, O Truth !
Thou heaven-descended judge! what has he
Has he refused to bend the flexile knee [done ?
Before the blood-stain 'd foot of ruthless power?
To fawn upon the bloated, lordly fool,
Who claim'd his vassalage ? Has he refused
To load the groaning altars of the church ;
Libell'd, by truth, some wanton, courtly dame ;
Or, like an arrogant, rebellious knave,
Dared talk of freedom ? Say, O vengeful man !
Are these thy destined victims ? Is it thus
Thou deal'st the meed of justice? Dost thou
think
Thy petty rage will sever them from Him,
Whose attribute is mercy, and whose grace
Mocks all distinctions ? O ! let Nature speak,
And with instinctive force inform thy soul,
That liberty, the choicest boon of heaven,
Is Reason's birth-right, and the gift of God !
In the worst den of human misery,
Behold the hopeless and forsaken wretch,
Who on the humid pavement naked lies,
Tearing his burning flesh ! Then ask thy heart,
O ! little greatness ! and let nature's voice.
Piercing the adamantine shield of pride,
Tell thee, thy victim is thy fellow-man !
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168
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Once nature's darling , new a maniac wild !
His intellectual treasures scatter'd wide,
By persecution's strong and ruthless arm,
While he, an atom, shrinking from the storm,
Flies to an unbless'd grave ! Was it for this
His youth was pass'd in toil— in mental toil—
The hardest labour? Did the classic fount,
Such as Athenian sages taught to flow,
For him diffuse his renovated streams,
The muses bind his brow, the virtues grace
His oland, instinctive mind, to bow the slave
Of barbarous Ignorance ! Did Fancy smile,
And bid his fingers smite th' Horatian lyre,
His pulses throb with the fine fervour, strong 5
His depth of thought explore the wondrous
Which bade Longinus live, himself to die,
Unblest, neglected, indigent, and mad ?
Did he, for this, with Newton climb the spheres,
And traverse worlds unknown ? Or did the thrill
Of heaven-born Poesy, through every vein
Dart the electric fire, whose vivid glow
Illumed the darken'd sense of Britain's bard,*
With full Promethean blaze, while at his touch
Immortal themes, embodied, burst to view
Angels, and all the mighty hosts of Heaven,
Ranged in tremendous glory? Power supreme !
Oh ! theme of justice ! victims such as these
Make Reason tremble ; rouse the thinking soul,
And, in the frenzied agony of wrongs,
Present such sceptical and daring thoughts,
That man disowns his Maker ! Guilty Pride,
The crime is thine, not his ; thy lofty rage,
Insulting tyranny, and cold disdain,
Pour'd fell oppression's torrent o'er his sense,
Madden'd his shrinking brain, and whelm'd his
soul!
Now anarchy roam'd wide a monster fierce,
Of sullen discontent, and rancour born,
And nursed with blood ! Breaking the sacred
bonds
Of social t>rder, trampling to the dust,
Distinctions requisite of worth and laws,
And dealing desolation all around !
Veil'd by its growing wing, the dawning hour,
Which welcomed Liberty, and spread around
A pure effulgence, suddenly grew dark,
And storms impending, blacken'd the broad sun.
The highmost hills re-echoed with the shouts
Of yell'd destruction : while the concave vast
Of heaven shook horrible ! The beatsu ways,
By the unwearied foot of commerce made,
Were wash'd with blood : the holy altar stain'd
With gore of innocents. The good, the wise,
The smiling infant, and the hoary sage,
The pride of genius, and the boast of fame,
Sunk in the mighty ruin. Rabble rage,
And low suspicion, lurk'd beneath the guise
• Milton.
Of patriotic ardour. Memory, i
By the arch-fiend Rebellion, dyed the steel
With fury indiscriminate and wild
In the unwary heart. Rebellion then
Usurp'd the form of freedom, whose bland soul
Shrunk at the boundless and licentious rage
Of lawless innovation. 'Midst the scene,
Wild as the wintry storm, uprose the lord
Of towering desolation !— on his breast,
Expanded and omnipotently strong,
A gorgon shield shone dazzling, while his arm,
Wielding a flaming sword with giant strength,
Hew'd down the tree of Reason. Then the eyt
Of shuddering Liberty was dimm'd with tears,
Haggard and grief-swoln. The ensnlphur'd air
Thicken'd to blot the sun I—The shriek of death
Deepen'd the midnight horrors, and the dawn
Redden'd through tears, while o'er th' ensan-
guined scene
Pale Nature trembled : for infuriate man,
Wild with the fateful plenitude of power,
Warr'd 'gainst his desperate fellow. Not alone
O'er proud oppression flew the bolts of fate ;
But all around, as the swift summer storm
Tears from the mountain's brow the sturdy oak,
While the small floweret and the poisonous weed
Alike are levell'd, so the vengeful shaft
Bore down the breathing race : the clang of arms
Deafen'd the ear of reason : the loud shout
Of uproar, frantic, now was heard to ring
The vanity arch of heaven, while mingling
groans
Drown'd the deep sighs of nature ! Liberty,
Thou rational delight ! thou good
Ordain'd to bless mankind, how was thy name
Profaned by cruelty ! How dimly gleam 'd
Thy heaven-illumined orbs, beneath a front
Blood-stain'd and ghastly ! How was thy do-
main
By slaughter desolated, while around,
A dread depopulation swept the path ;
Which Anarchy had trodden. Where were then
Thy fields prolific, and thy hamlets gay,
Thy mountain revelries, and peaceful glens,
The boast of a brave peasantry ? Each hour /
Mark'd on the page of time some guilty deed, "
The ravenous hordes wolf-like were gorged with
blood, V
While two arch demons, the fierce phalanx led /
Lawless and cruel !* Daring homicides,
Apostates to their God ! How many fell
Beneath the arm, in usurpation strong,
Yet recreant in oppression !
On the plain
The mangled carcass blacken'd ; rivers bore
Their murder'd victims down the blushing wave
Of blank oblivion. O'er the flinty way
The mutilated limb and streaming heart
* Marat and Robe, pierre.
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Met the full eye of Pity. Beauty's breast,
Polluted by the touch of sensual rage,
Qniver'd beneath the fell assassin's sword ; —
While outraged nature stamp'd the hellish deed
On retribution's tablet. Every street
Presented the wide scaffold, crimson-stain 'd,
And menacing destruction. Palaces
Were now the haunts of ruthless revellers,
Of vices abject, dark conspiracies —
While uncurb'd rapine, and blaspheming rage,
Roved with licentious frenzy. Sacred shrines
And temples consecrate, were public marts
Of profligate debasement. Not the wise,
The virtuous, or the brave, then held the scale
Of even justice : freedom's sons inspired,
In vain rear'd high their banners 'mid the scene
Of maddening slaughter. For a time their zeal
Was mock'd with barbarous rage; their great
design
By frenzy violated, or constrain' d
By spells infernal. Then, O Liberty !
Thy frantic mien, and heaven-imploring eye,
Turn'd from the dreadful throng to trace new
paths,
And seek, in distant climes, new scenes of wo.
'Mid the dread altitudes of dazzling snow
O'er-topping the huge imagery of nature,
Where one eternal winter seem'd to reign,
An hermit's threshold, carpetted with moss,
Diversified the scene. Above the flakes
Of silvery snow, full many a modest flower
Peep'd through its icy veil, and blushing oped
Its variegated hues— the orchis sweet,
The bloomy cistus, and the fragrant branch
Of glossy myrtle. In the rushy cell
. The lonely anchoret consumed his days,
^ Unblessing and unbless'd. In early youth,
; Cross' d in the fond affections of his soul
^ (For in his soul the purest passions lived)
\ By false ambition, from his parent home
t ] He, solitary, wander'd : while the maid,
r <-\ Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart,
* Condemn'd by lordly, needy persecution,
* Z Pined in monastic horrors !
\ ^ . Near his sill
^ ^ A little cross he rear'd ; where prostrate he,
; At day's pale glimpse, and when the setting sun
; JJ Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,
v » His orisons would pour, for her whose hours
^ Were wasted in oblivion. Winters past,
a And summers faded slow, uncheerly all
To the lone hermit's sorrows. For still, love
A mild and unpolluted altar rear'd
On the white waste of wonders ! From the peak
Which mark'd his neighbouring hut, his tearful
eye
Oft wander'd o'er the rich expanse below ;
Oft traced the glow of vegetating spring,
The full-blown summer splendours, and the hue
Of tawny scenes autumnal. Still was he
By all forgotten ; save by her whose breast
OF LIBERTY. I69
Sigh'd in responsive sadness to the gale
That swept her prison turrets. Five long years
Had the lone hermit turn'd the sandy glass
In silent resignation ! Five long years
Had seen his graces wither, ere his youth
Of life was wasted. From the social scenes
Of human energy an alien driven,
He almost had forgot the face of man.
No voice had met his ear, save when perchance
The pilgrim wanderer, or the goat-herd swain,
Bewilder'd in the starless midnight hour,
Implored the hermit's aid, the hermit's prayers ;
And nothing loth by pity or by prayer
Was he to soothe the wretched. On the top
Of his low rushy dome, a tinkling bell
Oft told the weary traveller to approach
Fearless of danger. The small silver sound
In quick vibrations echo'd down the glade
To the dim valley's quiet, while the breeze
Slept on the glassy Leman. Thus he pass'd
His melancholy days, an alien man
From all the joys of social intercourse,
Alone, unpitied ; — by the world forgot !
His scrip each morning bore the day's repast*
Gather'd on summits mingling with the clouds ;
From whose bleak altitude the eye looks down,
While fast the giddy brain is rock'd by fear.
Oft would he start from visionary rest,
When roaming wolves their midnight chorus
howl'd ;
Or blasts tremendous shatter'd the white cliffs,
While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,
Plunged to the dell below ! Oft would he sit,
In silent sadness, on the jutting block
Of snow-encrusted ice, and shuddering mark,
'Mid the vast wonders of the frozen world,
Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,
Hang o'er his hovel, terribly sublime !
And oft, when summer breathed its fragrant
gales,
Light sweeping o'er the wastes of printless dew,
Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze
Traced the swift storm advancing, whose broad
wing
Blacken' d the rushy dome of his low hut ;
While the pale lightning smote the pathless top
Of towering Cenis,— scattering, high and wide,
A mist of fleecy snow. Then would he hear,
While memory brought to view his happier days,
The trembling torrent, bursting wildly forth
From its thaw'd cavern, sweep the shaggy cliff
Vast and stupendous ! strengthening as it fell,
And delving, 'mid the snow, a chasm rude.
One dreary night, when winter's icy breath
Half-petrify'd the world ; when not a star
Gleam'd through the blank infinity of space ;
Sudden the hermit started from his couch,
Fear-struck and trembling f every limb was
shook
With painful agitation. On his cheek
The blanch interpreter of horror wild
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170
Sat terribly Impressive ! In his breast
The purple fount of life convulsive throbb'd,
And his broad eyes, fix'd motionless as death,
Gazed vacantly aghast ! his feeble lamp
Was wasting rapidly ! the biting gale
Pierced the thin texture of his narrow cell ;
And silence seem'd to mark the dreary hour
With tenfold horrors ! As he listening sat,
The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,
A groan, a second groan, assail'd his ear,
And roused him into action. To the sill
Of his low entrance he rush'd forth, end soon
The wicker bolt unfasten 'd. The keen blast
His quivering lamp extinguish 'd, and again
His soul was thrill'd with terror. From below
A stream of light shot forth, diffusing round
A partial view of trackless solitudes ;
While mingling voices seem'd, with busy hum,
To break the spell of silence ! Down the steep
The hermit basten'd ; when a shriek of death
Re-echo'd to the valley ! As he flew,
Half hoping, half despairing, to the scene
Of wonder- waking anguish, suddenly
The torches were extinct,— and glooms opaque
Involved the face of nature. AH below
Wat wrapp'd in darkness; while the hollow
Of cavern'd winds, with melancholy sound,
Deepen 'd the midnight horrors. Four long
hours [dawn
The hermit watch 'd and pray*d. And now the
.Broke on the eastern summits ; the blue light
Shed its cold lustre on the colder brows
Of Alpine mountains ; while the dewy wing
Of weeping twilight sweep'd the naked plains
Of the Lombardian landscape. On the snow,
Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made
By steps precipitate ; a rugged path
Down the steep frozen chasm mark'd the fate
Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form
Had toppled from the summit. Lower still
The anchoret descended — till arrived
At the first ridge of snowy battlements,
Where, lifeless— ghastly, paler than the bed
On which her cheek reposed — his darling maid
Slept in the arms of death. Frantic and wild
He clasps her well-known form, and bathes
with tears
The lilies of her bosom, — icy cold !
Yet beautiful and spotless !
Now afar
The wondering hermit heard the dang of arms
lie-echoing from the valley ! the white cliffs
Trembled, as though an earthquake shook their
base
With terrible concussion ! thundering peals
From warfare's brazen throat proclaim'd th'
approach
Of conquering legions. Onward they extend
'Ilieir dauntless columns ;— shouts of victory
With deafening clamours ratify the toils
ROBINSON'S
Of ruthless depredators! In the ranks
A ruffian met the hermit's startled gaze,
Like hell's worst demon! for his murdereui
hands
Were smear'd with gore, and on his daring breast
A golden cross, suspended, bore the name
Of his soul's darling !— Hapless anchoret !
Thy vestal saint, by his unhsllow'd rage
Torn from monastic solitude, had been
The victim of rude rioters, whose souls
Had mock'd the touch of pity! To his cell
The wretched alien turn'd his trembling feet;
And, after three sad weeks of pain and prayer,
Closed the dark tablet of his fate— and died !
Hail'd by the breathing race, O child of time,
Borne on thy parent's wings, thy eagle eyes
Glanced o'er the pendent world ! Full many s
spot
Seem'd dark with misery ; and many a wretch
Pined in oppression's chain. Italia's sons,
Placed in the blooming garden of the world,
A second Athens, Europe's proudest clime,
Pregnant with spicy galea, and balmy dews,
Whose seminaries, rich with treasured lore,
Mark'd that emporeum, where the classic mM
Gave and received the pure exchange of thought;
E'en there the sun of intellect was dimm'd
By gloomy tyranny. There misery's race,
Dark in the centre of expanding light,
Still groan'd beneath the worst of slavery,
The spells of superstition. Temples vast,
And shrines of massy gold, their prisons were;
Replete with galling chains ; while daring hands
Dealt the decrees of heaven; and impious
tongues
Pronounced anathemas, to fright mankind.
Superstition ! more destructive still
Than plague or famine, tyranny or war !
Thou palsying mischief, thou benumbing foe
To all the proudest energies of man !
Whence springs thy subtle desolating charm,
From pompous pageantry and bigot pride,
From mitred canopies, and shrines of gold,
And bones of mouldering monks? Can freezing
In cells where cold inanity presides, [nights,
Cloth'd in religion's meek and sainted guise,
Or long-drawn pageantry of empty show,
Conceal the trembling soul, from that dread
power
Which marks th' All-seeing ! On Italia's shores,
On every plain, on every mountain top,
The voice of nature speaks, in mighty sounds,
To bid thee tremble ! Then, 0! nature, say-
Shall rich Italia's bowers, her citron shades,
Her vales prolific, mountains golden clad,
And rivers fringed with nectar-teeming groves,
Re-echo with the mighty song of praise
To empyrean space, while shackled still
The man of colour dies? Shall torrid suns
Shoot downward their hot beams on misery's
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And call forth luxuries to pamper pride,
Steep' d in the Ethiop's tears, the Ethiop's
blood!
Shall the caprice of nature, the deep tint
Of sultry dimes, the feature varying,
Or the uncultured mind, endure the scourge
Of sordid tyranny, or heap the stores
Of his fair fellow man, whose ruddy cheek
Knows not the tear of pity ; whose white breast
Conceals a heart, than adamant more hard,
More cruel than the tiger's ! Bend thy gaze,
O. happy offspring of a tempered clime,
On whom the partial hand of nature set
The stamp of bloomy tints, proportions fine,
Unmixing with the goodly outside show
The mind appropriate ; bend thy pitying gaze
To Zambia's frozen sphere, where in his hut,
Roofd by the rocky steep, the savage smiles,
In conscious freedom smiles, and mocks the
storm
That howls along the sky. Th' unshackled limb,
Cloth'd in the shaggy hide of uncouth bear,
Or the fleet mountain elk, bounds o'er the cliff
The free-born tenant of the desert wild.
Toe glow of liberty, through every vein
Bids sensate streams revolve ; the dusky path
Of midnight solitudes no terror brings,
Because he fears no lord. The prowling wolf,
Whose eye-balls redden 'midst the world of
gloom,
Yells fierce defiance, form'd by nature's law
To share the desert's freedom. O'er the sky
The despot darkness reigns, in sullen pride,
Half the devoted year. His ebon wing
O'ershadows the blank space : his chilling breath
Benumbs the breast of nature ; on his brow,
Myriads of stars with lucid lustre gem
His boundless diadem ! The savage cheek
Smiles at the potent spoiler ; braves his frown ;
And while the partial gloom is most opaque,
Still vaunts the mind unfetter'd ! If for these
Indulgent nature breaks the bonds of wo,
Gilding the deepest solitudes of night
With the pure flame of liberty sublime ;
If for the untaught sons of gelid climes,
Health cheers the darkest hour with vigorous
age,*
Shajl the poor African, the passive slave,
Born in the bland effulgence of broad day,
Cherlsh'd by torrid splendours, while around
The plains prolific teem with honey'd stores
Of Afric's burning soil ; shall such- a wretch
Sink prematurely to a grave obscure,
No tear to grace his ashes ? Or suspire,
OF LIBERTY.
171
To wear submission's long and goading chain,
To drink the tear, that down his swarthy cheek
Flows fast, to moisten his toil-fever'd lip,
Parch'd by the noontide blaze ? Shall he endure
The frequent lash, the agonizing scourge,
The day of labour, and the night of pain ;
Expose his naked limbs to burning gales;
Faint in the sun, and wither in the storm ;
Traverse hot sands, imbibe the morbid breeze,
Wing'd with contagion, while his blister'd feet,
Scorch'd by the vertical and raging beam,
Pour the swift life-stream ? Shall his frenzied
eyes, <
Oh! worst of mortal miseries ! behold
The darling of his soul, his sable love,
Selected from the trembling, timid throng
By the wan tyrant, whose licentious touch
Seals the dark fiat of the slave's despair !
Humanity ! from thee the suppliant claims
The need of retribution ! Thy pure flame
Would light the sense opaque, and warm the
spring
Of boundless ecstacy ; while nature's laws
So violated, plead, immortal-tongued,
For her dark-fated children ; lead them forth
From bondage infamous ! Bid reason own
The dignities of man, whate'er his dime,
Estate, or colour. And, O sacred Truth !
Tell the proud lords of traffic, that the breast
Thrice ebon-tinted, bears a crimson tide,
As pure, as clear as Europe's sons can boast.
Then, Liberty, extend thy thundering voice
To Afric's scorching climes, o'er seas that bound
To bear the blissful tidings, while all earth
Shall hail Humanity ! the child of Heaven !
• BufFon, Ppeaking of the inhabitants of Nova
Zembla, siys— •« they are seldom or never sick, and
all arrive ut extreme old age. Even the old men are
so vigorous, that it is difficult to distinguish (them
from the young."
BOOK SECOND.
Whbrx summer smiles, clad in the golden garb
Of sunny splendours ; where the tangled vine,
Bending with purple clusters, richly glows ;
Where the brown olive clothes the Sabine hills
In tawny veil, repelling the hot breeze ;
The labouring throngs advance. In every eye,
The living ray of waken'd intellect
Marks Reason's lamp divine ! on every cheek
A stranger smile is seen, deep'ning the tint
Which southern climes diffuse, with ruddy flush
Of conscious ecstacy ! The voice, unchain'd,
Breathes the pure eloquence of nature's tongue
Mocking the fine- wrought sophistry of schools,
The pomp of learning, and the vaunted lore
Of Metaphysic art. The untaught race,
Grown to maturity, yet newly born,
Above pedantic lessons, feel the glow
Of nature's own philosophy. O ! change
Transcendent and sublime ! Blest as the day
That, after a long night of gloom opaque,
A night of months, which blotting the broad sun.
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172
From Scandinavia's deserts smiling comes,
And peering o'er some frozen mountain's top,
Illumes the ebon world. On every plain
Where Italy unfolds her treasured store
Of summer gifts luxurious, tepid dews,
And gales impregnated with spicy breath
Of buds ambrosial, greet the daring hosts
Of conquering France. The brazen cannon's
roar,
Echoing to heaven's high concave, steals away
In sullen, long vibration ; while around,
O'er every hill, green copse, and woodland glade,
From troublous Tiber to th' Etrurian meads,
That skirt the vale where Arno's limpid tide
Flashes the silver wave,, in dulcet sounds,
The music of the tinkling mandolin
Calls forth the rustic throng, to feast, and sing,
And mingle, wildly gay, in mazy dance.
And thou, fair city, rising from the wave,
Girt with a lucid zone, thy Parian towers,
Proud sea-marks, glittering while the sunny
beam
Glows o'er the Adriatic ; thou, emerged
From gloomy superstition far more dread
Than ocean's vast and liquid battlements
Kock'd by tempestuous winds, when all around
The equinoctial blast howls fierce and strong
Braving its tyrant orb ; thou, 'mid the deep, -
Stands like a lofty temple, whose firm base
The green main guards triumphant ; thy proud
sons
Hymn the loud song of liberty, new born ;
While the white sail of welcome treasuries
( From worshipped Ganges,* or Peruvian hills ;
From odour-breathing Persia's pearly sands,
Wash'd by the Caspian wave,) to greet thy
mart,
Thronging the pale horizon each new morn,
Now swell with gales propitious. Now no
more [haunts
Slaughter steals hoodwink'd through the gloomy
Of thy wide circled citadel. No lord,
From the dark gondola, beholds his slave,
Whose trade is murder, deal the deadly wound
On his unwary foe ; while, by the ray
Of holy lamp, the keen stiletto glares,
And the pale victim, sinking, groans and dies.
Time was, and memory sickens to retrace
The tablet fraught with wrongs, when seasons
O'er the small hut of lowly industry [roll'd
In dim succession of eternal gloom ;
Though rosy morn upon the eastern cliff
* This river is ia great esteem in India, not only
on account of the long course it runs, the depth of its
several channels, and the pureness of its stream, but
from the sanctity which the natives believe to be in
the waters. It is visited annually by pilgrims, who
pay their devotions to this river, and carry their
dying friends to expire ou its banks.
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS,
Burst wtfe her silver gates, and scatter' d round
A bright ethereal shower! When nature's
breast
Unveiled its fragrance, and its bloomy tints,
Spangled by twilight's tears to weary eyes,
Unbless'd with sweet repose ! Poor, toil-worn
The hardy blossoms of a fervid soil ;— [race i
What was their hapless lot ? To sigh, to pant,
To scorch and faint, while from the cloudless sky
The noon-tide beam shot downward. By their
hands [glebe
The burning ploughshare through the Tuscan
Pursued its sultry way : the smoking plains,
Refresh'd by tepid showers, received the pledge
Of future luxury. The tangling vine, [rind,
Nursed by their toil, grew fibrous : the brown
Dried by the parching gale, wove close and firm
Guarded the rich and nectarous distillation.
The tendrils twined, to every point minute
The odorous beverage stole, till the swoln fruit,
Empurpled by the sun, the labourers prest
To yield its luscious burden. Yet, for them
Did summer gild the plain ? Did autumn glow ?
Did austral breezes fan the tepid shower,
Scarce whispering as it fell ? Did the day's toil
Ensure the night's repose ?— sweet recompense,
That well befits the peasant's guiltless soul !
Could they, when down the crimson plains
of light
The lord of day retired, when every bird,
The plumy traveller of unbounded space,
Claim'd the short hour of rest, could Labour's
Shake from their freckled brows the evening dew,
And homeward, blithesomely, return to quaff
The honey'd cup of joy? Could they suspire
Health's breezy hour; on their own cultured
plains
Reap the full harvest, pen their fleecy store ;
Or, as the night-mist gather'd o'er the heath,
Call home their wandering herds ?J-0 ! suffer-
ing carle !
When the rich vintage heap'd the lordly board,
Moisten'd the feasted lip, or flashing foam'd
Within its crystal prison, amber-dyed ;
When nectar, thrice distilled by burning gales,
Sated the palate of the pamper'd fool ;
What were thy poor rewards ?— A scanty boon !
Dealt out with freezing scorn, or brutal pride ;
A rushy pillow, and a mountain hut
Whose sides of clay, and tempest shatter'd roof
Scarce screen' d thy bosom from the wintry
blast;
(The very dogs of princes warmer housed !)
While the long hour, 'till morning's dawn, stole
In sullen sadness, or in fruitless prayer ! [on
Turn to the marble palaces of pride,
The velvet hangings and the golden shows,
That made their tables groan. Behold their
feasts,
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THE PBOGRB6S
Of luscious fruits, and blood-inflaming spice ;
Their oily syrups of ambrosial flowers,
Conserves, thrice essenced in Phoenician dews,
Fit for the sickening palate of the wretch
By luxury unnerved ! Beneath his feet,
tlie polish'd pavement must be sprinkled o'er
With perfumes of Arabia ! From above,
The latticed roof, with summer flowers o'er-
hung,
'Midst aromatic sweets, shed cooling airs
On his feast-fever' d cheek ! On every side,
In sumptuous colonnades of Parian stone,
Or glittering granite, or the fibrous earth
Of rich Sienna's hills ; slow -breathing flutes,
In dulcet strains, take captive the dull sense
Tnroughthe long hour of feasting ; cheating time
With enervating bliss ! O ! contrast infinite !
Yet who, amidst the mortal myriads,
Most labour'd to embellish Nature's plan
Of boundless wonders ? Who, with ceaseless toil,
Dug from the beamless mazes of the earth
The boast of varying climes, from Lybia's groves
To caves Armenian, guarded by the rocks
Of wild Euphrates? Who, but the sons of toil,
Enrich'd the sculptured dome, revived the arts,
Sinking, o'erwhelm'd, amidst the wrecks of
time?
Look round the lofty palaces of pride,
Behold the breathing canvas, wondrous proof
Of imitative power ! where human forms,
Colours, and space, miraculously ranged,
Drew order out of chaos ! where the vast
Of bold perception varied hues disclosed,
From the rich foliage of embowering woods,
To mountains, azure capp'd, scarce visible,
Amid the dusk of distance. Trace the lines
That form the graceful statue, Grecian born,
From rough-hewn quarries ! . See the rounding
limb,
The modest look serene ! which marks the nymph
Of Medicean fame : proud monument
Of heaven-instructed Genius ! thou shalt charm
When Pomp and Pride shall mingle in the mass
Of undistinguish'd clay, inanimate !
That, having borne its hour of busy toil,
Shrinks into shapeless nothing ! Dreadful
thought !
To mingle with the cold and senseless earth ;
In spells of dull inanity to rest ;
The noblest passions, and the living powers
Of intellectual light, the soul's pure lamp,
All, all extinguish'd ! Tell me, nature's God !
Then what is the Warm magic that supplies
The strong life-loving flame, which fills tho
breast,
Enlivening time's slow journey ? Liberty !
If thou art not the impulse exquisite,
Where does it dwell ? What else can teach the
wretch
( Labouring with mortal ills, disease and pain,
Deep-wounding poverty, presumptuous scorn,
OF UBERTY. 173
High-crested arrogance, affections spurn'd,)
To bear the weight of thought, and linger out
This weary task of being? Blest with thee,
The peasant were as happy as his lord—
For Nature knows no difference! Summer
smiles
For the poor cottager, and smiling shows
The vegetating scene, diffusing fair
And equal portions for the sons of earth !
But man, proud man, a bold usurper, takes
The law of nature from its destined course,
And fashions it at pleasure ! .Hence we trace
The gloomy annals of receding time
Spotted with gore, and blurr'd by pity's tears,
Where Genius, Virtue, Nature's progeny !
Mark'd by th' Eternal's hand with every charm,
Have shrunk beneath oppression !— bow'd the
neck [fraud,
Before the blood-stain'd shrines of impious
Flouted by fools, the gilded dregs of earth,
And forced to hide the gushing tear of scorn,
Till driven to mountain caves, and desert glooms,
The godlike wonders fled. The first?" sublime,
The darling of his race ; majestic ! grand !
With eyes, whose living lustre beam'd afar
The blaze of intellect, Prometh ean- touch 'd,
And infinitely radiant !—
By his side,
Beauteous and mild as morn's returning star,
The maiden, Virtue, moved ! and who can tell
But in some hovel low, whose rushy roof
The barren cliff defends from wintry storms,
The godlike pair, scorning the din of fools,
(Ambition's clamour, which the despot Death
Awhile observes, then, with his iron hand,
Locks in eternal silence ! ) who can tell,
But the proud pair, by Reason's power sus-
tain'd,
Cherish a glorious race ? Statesmen and chiefs,
Poets, and sage philosophers, whose lore
Might rival ancient Greece, and nobly prove
The solitude of Virtue — Wisdom's sons !
Thy day begins to dawn ! Reason sublime !
Thy penetrating eye, no more obscured
By superstition, politic and shrewd,
Beholds, beneath the cowl of whining fraud,
Blood-thirsty tyrants, subtle hoodwink'd
knaves,
Who* 'mid the gloomy labyrinths of time,
Have murder'd millions; heap'd the bigot pile,
And bit the brand accursed, where martyr'd
saints [oaths,
Fed the consuming flame ; who, bound in
Hostile to man, insulting to their God,
Wove the thick veil which closely shrouded
round
Th' infernal Inquisition ! Hydra fiend !
W hose wide extended hand and ruthless power
Grasp'd the Peruvian desert, rooting thence
The tree of reason, and enforcing zeal
Which instinct shunn'd, while ages sanctified
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J 74
MM. HOBXNMWB POEMS.
A. grandly fervid worship ! * In that cause
How many perish'd, while the enianguined
hordes
Of sanctified despollers, dyed the steel
In Wood and innocence. Oh ! sacred truth !
How are thy laws profaned, when cavils shrewd
Warp the instinctive mind, and bend the will
To tenets politio : when interest rules
The mind's strong energies, and bigot fangs
Blur the fair aspect of religion pure
To feed ambition's maw ; destructive gulf,
Yawning, but never, never sated! — Now, no
more
Shall reason, palsied by licentious power,
Pay flexile homage to the lofty fool,
The carping minion, or the high-raised shrew,
While withering victims cram the ebon jaws
Of Gallia's fell Bastile. O! dreadful hour !
Disastrous to the groaning tribes of earth,
And doubly horrible in sight of Heaven !
Trace but the source of every mortal crime,
Of rapine, murder, or the hopeless pang
Of that misguided and blaspheming wretch
Who disavows his God. Whence do they rise ?
From what deep hell, than Acheron more dark,
More terrible to think of? Ask thy heart,
O thou, who blest with giddy fortune's smiles,
Canst riot in voluptuous wanton joys,
Feed on the banquet prodigally rich,
Nursing the embryo mischiefs of disease,
Clothe thy gross frame, bloated with idleness,
In silk, and gems, and perfumes exquisite,
Recline on downy beds, where o'er thy breast,
Sated with feasting, hangs the gay festoon
Of costly velvet ; while, till busy noon,
In Doric halls, crowded with motley slaves,
The vestibules of pride, the drooping child
Of humble virtue waits ; till his mint form,
Struggling with poverty and conscious worth,
Is spurn' d Indignant, or compell'd to hide,
In some lone corner of obscure distress,
Those mental treasures, which would make thee
poor
By fair comparison. Then why is he
Forced by the tyranny of custom's law,
To yield thee homage ? Fortune is his foe !
He wants that vile contaminating dross,
Which gives to falsehood all the grace of truth ;
To fools respect ; to villains empty praise ;
Buys fawning smiles from sycophants and
knaves ;
Deadens the hand of jus tise ; seals the tongue
* The Peruvians worshipped the sun, the source of
every good— The emblem of the incomprehensible Di-
vinity : but the Spaniards compelled them to change
their faith, and many thousands were destroyed (on
pretence of their refusing to submit to the Pope, or
the King of Spain) ; but, in reality, for the vile pur-
pose of usurpation.
Of busy admonition, hateful guest
To that dull empty dupe, whose ear imbibes
The honey 'd poison of deceitful tongues,
While interest holds a mirror to his breast,
Which flatters, while it damns him. At his gate
The famish'd beggar lies ; the lame, the blind,
The poor artificer, or veteran hold,
Whose guiltless age and mutilated limbs
Are his proud passports ! Dost thou feel for
him,
Thy brother man, but nobler than thyself,
By nature's heraldry? Behold his scars,
His silver hairs, scatter'd by every blast '
That wings the wintry storm. Does gratitude
To him present a portion of that wealth—
Which he, by many an hour of fierce exploit,
Rescued from foreign foes? Does fancy paint,
Amid thy dreams of labour'd respiration,
The stormy night, when on the tatter' d shrouds,
Drench'd by the pelting shower, while deaf ning
peals
Rung in his startled ears, the seaman stood
Braving the dreadful gulf that yawn'd below !
Such was the mendicant that haunts thy gate !
So were his useful hours consumed for thee ;
When o'er the rocking deck the sulphur'd flash
Of desolating war its terrors threw
Midst dying groans : while thundering peal on
peal
The brazen tongue of slaughter roar'd revenge,
Making heaven's concave tremble ! See that
cheek
Wither'd by torrid suns, or frozen climes,
Bathed with a silent tear. Beside him stands.
With half-retiring step and modest eye,
Fraught with the silent eloquence of wo,
His misery's only hope, a beauteous girl,
Gentle as innocent ! Her daily task
Is filial piety, attention sweet,
That marks th' angelic mind ! Her outstretch 'd
arm
Guides the slow footsteps of her drooping sire,
Grown blind with age, and wearied out with
toil:
Yet, 'midst the sombre wilderness of wo,
Her voice breeds comfort ; and her thrifty baud,
When on a bed of straw her parent sleeps,
Is turn'd to industry. O ! fortune blind !
Thou, from whose lap uncounted treasures fall,
Strewing the paths of folly and of pride
With rich redundency of nature's stores-
Till the pall'd fancy sicken, and the sense
Faint with satiety ; O ! fortune blind !
Hadst thou no little hoard for modest worth,
No silent nook in the vast space of earth,
Where the wrong' d child of poverty might rest,
Screen'd from the worst of mortal miseries,
The cold contempt of ignorance and pride.
How glows the patriot soul, while fancy's drearo
Anticipates the day when ruthless war
Shall cease to desolate ! Prophetic hope
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THE PROGRESS
Beholds the heavenly vision, bleeding France,
When o'er thy blooming vales and tawny hills,
Thy pine clad summits and thy yellow plains,
Thy peaceful tribes shall rove. The laughing
Link'd in the bonds of social amity, [throng,
Live for each other. Honesty and mirth,
Twin children of the mountain cottagers,
Labour and peace, come dancing o'er the heath,
Purpled with fragrant flowers. Before them fly,
Fluttering their sunny wings, unshackled loves ;
And hope, with sparkling eyes, whose humid
lids
Are fill'd with tears of joy ! The breezy hills,
Glowing with fruits redundant, seem to snatch
The sun-beam's lustre; while exulting Health
Bounds o'er the topmost summit. The soft dews
Spangle her airy vest of gossamer,
And bathe her odorous bosom. On her cheek,
Deepen'd by exercise, the orient tint [veins
Plays on the dimpled smile, while through her
The temper' d blood its purple channel fills
By streams revolving ; not with sluggish pace
Of glutted feasting, or benumbing sloth, •
Bat pure and limpid as the vagrant brook
Wandering in liquid lapse along the vale,
And brightening as it wanders. All around
Reason and peace, exulting, dance o'er flowers
Whose austral fragrance through the whispering
Scatter a world of sweets. [air
Then, smiling spring !
Thy beauties shall unfold redundantly [thou
To strew the paths of peace ! Then, summer,
Shalt wear thy golden stole, with cheek of fire
Flush'd by ecstatic bliss, thy broad clear eye
Flaming o'er fields luxuriant ! Then shall
Fame, led on by smiling Commerce, drop her
tear
On Valour's grave, while rustic revellers
Mark the long hour of autumn's closing day
By many a simple tale, as simply told,
Of hardy valour; then the spacious hearth,
Encircled by the sons of toil, shall blaze,
Which through the long day fed its embers faint,
Lonely and unattended.
Then the sound
Of boisterous glee shall echo to the roof,
While the tired labourer joins, with half-closed
eyes,
The clamorous burthen of the uncouth song.
Who has not seen the cheerful harvest home !
Enlivening the scorch'd field, and greeting gay
The slow decline of autumn ? All around
The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,
Glow golden-lustred ; and the trembling stem
Of the slim oat, or azure corn-flower,
Waves on the hedge-rows shady. From the hill
The day-breeze softly steals with downward
wing,
And lightly passes, whispering the soft sounds
Which moan the death of summer. Glowing
scene,
OP LIBERTY. j 75
Nature's long holiday ! Luxuriant, rich,
In her proud progeny, she smiling marks,
Their graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught
Hail ! season exquisite !— and hail, ye sons
Of rural toil !— ye blooming daughters !— ye
Who, in the lap of hardy labour rear'd,
Enjoy the mind unspotted ! Up the plain,
Or on the sidelong hill, or in the glen,
Where the rich farm, or scatter' d hamlet, shows
The neighbourhood of peace, ye still are found,
A merry and an artless throng, whose aouls
Beam through untutor'd glances. When the
Unfolds its sunny lustre, and the dew [dawn
Silvers the outstretch' d landscape, labour's sons
Rise, ever healthful,— -ever cheerily, [dreams
From Bweet and soothing rest; — for feverish
Visit not lowly pallets ! All the day
They toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—
But toil without repining ! The blithe song,
Joining the woodland melodies afar,
Flings its rude cadence in fantastic sport
On echo's airy wing ! The ponderous load
Follows the weary team : the narrow lane
Bears on its thick- wove hedge the scatter'd com,
Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thorn
Purloin'd from the broad waggon.
On the plain
The freckled gleaner gathers the scant sheaf,
And looks, with many a sigh, on the tythe heap
Of the proud, pamper' d pastor ! To the brook
That ripples shallow down the valley's slope,
The herds slow measure their unvaried way ;—
The flocks along the heath are dimly seen
By the faint torch of evening, whose red eye
Closes in tearful silence. Now the air
Is rich in fragrance .'—fragrance exquisite !
Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash'd,
And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,
Ruffle the lake's grey surface. All around
The thin mist rises, and the bnsy tones
Of airy people, borne on viewless wings,
Break the short pause of nature. From the
plain
The rustic throngs come cheerly ; their loud din
Augments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,
Happy !— more happy than the lords ye serve ! —
How lustily your sons endure the hour
Of wintry desolation ! and how fair
Your blooming daughters greet the opening dawn
Of love-inspiring spring !
Hail! harvest home!
To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,
By instinct taught to warble ! instinct pure,
Sacred, and grateful to that power adored,
Which warms the sensate being, and reveals
The soul self-evident !— beyond the dreams
Of visionary sceptics ! Scene sublime !
Where earth presents her golden treasuries ;
Where balmy breathings whisper to the heart
Delights unspeakable ! Where seas, and skies,
And hills, and valleys,— colours, odours, dews,
Digitized by G00gle
176 MM,
Diversify the work of nature's God !
Now turn, my muse,
To Albion's plain prolific ; where serene,
Temper'd by reason, liberty delights
To warm th' enlighten'd mind ! Where, since
the days
When her bold barons ratified their deed,
Freedom has smiled triumphant and secure.
Oh ! favoured isle, long may discordant broils
Be severed from thy shores ; may howling wa
Blow its dread blast far, Albion, far from thee,
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Moans the decline of day: while twilights
Fall on the dusky wings of chilling night,
Spreading to hide its triumphs. The vast dome
Gleams with unnumber'd stars, the prying eyes
Of those bright sentinels, ethereal borne,
That watch the sleep of nature. O'er the main,
In ebon car aerial, lightning wing'd,
The pealing thunder whirling his vast flight,
A short-lived fiend, gigantic born, the son
Of equinox, rides furious. The freed winds
While thy white ramparts, towering o'er the | Howl as he passes by. The foamy waste
waves,
Shall bid thy foes defiance ! Here the hind
Enjoys the well-earn'd produce of his toil,
And sleeps secure, protected by those laws
Form'd for the peasant and the prince alike.
Still may thy infants, Albion, instinct taught, .
Prattle of liberty ; the sun-burnt swain,
As slow the flaming torch of day retires,
Sing the loud strain of freedom and of joy.
Still may no wrongs invade his midnight dreams,
No guilty wish contaminate his will,
To violate the laws : for 'tis the sting
Of keen oppression that gives birth to crimes,
And brutalizes man. The ravenous wolf
Feeds not upon his kind, — his murderous will
Being but instinctive. Lions prowl abroad,
Famish'd and watchful of the desert path
Where the lone traveller passes ; on his kind
He scorns to batten : none but thinking man
Preys on his species, sheds his brother's blood,
And while opposing, still opposed, derides
The pleading tongue of nature. Let the brave
Turn to the clay-built hovel of content,
Where peace and reason consecrate the toils
Which virtue's sons endure. See ! at their door
No shivering pilgrims wait the murderous
glance
Of scowling superstition. No dark fiend
Dashes the frugal cup with terror's gall,
Or from the fever'd lip, with churlish hand,
Snatches the cooling draught. No bigot wrath
Starves the poor sinner into faith ; or steals
From fainting toil that wholesome nourishment
Which nature meant to all, nor mark'd the day
Nor hour of recreation. Albion ! still
May thy brave peasantry indignant turn
From priestcraft, ignorance, and bigot fraud,
To view in nature's wonders, nature's God !
For where can man so proudly contemplate
Th' Omniscient's power, as in the tablet vast
Of infinite creation? Every breeze
Seems the soft whispering of nature's voice,
Fraught with the lore of reason. Every leaf
That flaunts its vernal hue, or eddying falls,
Its fibres wither'd by autumnal skies,
A moral lesson shows. The rippling rill
Prattles with nature's tongue. The evening
gale
Bounds with convulsive horrors ; while the
waves
Lash the loud-sounding shore. O ! nature's
God!
These are the varied pages of that lore
Which reason searches ; these the awful spells
That seize on all the faculties of man,
And bind them to allegiance. For that power
Which speaks in mighty thunder, wakes the soul,
Breathing in balmy gales ; is seen alike
In the swift lightning and the lingering hue
Of evening's purple veil ; looks through tbe
stars,
And whispers 'mid the solitude sublime
Of thickening glooms nocturnal : from the east
Flames forth his burning eye : the grateful earth
Welcomes his glances with her boundless stores,
And robes herself in splendours : odours rich,
And colours varying, decorate her breast,
To greet the Lord of nature : forests wild
And oceans multitudinous unfold
Their wonders to his gaze ! Then why should
man
Creep like a reptile, fearful to explore
The page of human knowledge ? Why mistrust
The sensate soul, the faculty supreme
Which instinct wakens ? Reason, power sub-
lime!
Accept the strain spontaneous from the muse,
Which nursed on Albion's cliffs, delights to sing
Of Liberty, and thee, her Albion's boast.
And though no flight sublime shall grace her
toil,
No classic lore expand her thinking mind,
Prophetic inspiration, rapt, shall pour
This mystic oracle. The pendent globe
Shall greet, with paeans loud, the sacred claim
To Britain's sons, by reason ratified ;
And when the God of nature, " trumpet-
tongued,"
Shall check the fiery steeds that hurl the car
Of shouting victory, time shall trace her course
On the proud tablet of eternal fame ;
And nature, towering 'mid the wrecks of war,
Shall bless her British shores, which grandly lift
Their rocky bulwarks o'er the howling main,
Firm and invincible, as Britain's sons,
The sons of reason ! unappall'd and free !
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MONODY
MEMORY OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
Thus, when thy draughts, O Rafaelle ! time invades,
And the bold figure from the canvas fades,
And rival hand recalls from every part
Some latent graces, equals art with art :
Transported we survey the dubious strife,
While each fair image starts again to life !
Broom b.
When Resignation, bending from the sky,
Steals the fond lingering tear from Virtue's eye ;
When the keen agonies of Grief are flown,
And Reason triumphs on her tranquil throne ;
The Muse to worth and Genius tunes her lyre,
While the chords glisten with celestial fire :
The Muse, in strains untutor'd, and unsought,
Soars on the pinions of enraptur'd thought;
While Memory to her eagle eye portrays
The lustrous tablet of a nation's praise ;
While Fame, exulting, spreads her fostering
wings,
And truth spontaneous sweeps the bounding
strings !
Hark ! the full chords in mystic sounds aspire,
To swell the chorus of the heavenly choir !
Where, to seraphic harps, ethereal borne,
The song of Patience bids us cease to mourn ;
Contemns the tear that gems each kindred eye,
Calms the quick throb, and checks the frequent
sigh !
While, 'midst the blaze of pure Promethean
light,
The meek-eyed cherub bends to mortal sight r
See from her dazzling wing soft essence pour
Heaven's sacred balm for misery's darkest hour i
When Fate inexorable deals her blow
O'er this rude wilderness of human wo,
'Till Virtue, pointing out the purer mind,
Secures the gem, and leaves the dross behind,
Claims the bright spirit from its native clod,
And bears it, spotless, to the sight of God !
Yet, Reynolds, while the winged minstrelsjoin
In all the melodies of sounds divine,
Round thy cold image, on its icy bed,
Some light illumes the mansion of the dead ;
An unextinguished light, that gilds the gloom
Where weeping Genius guards her favourite's
tomb !
Brightly it shines where thy pure ashes sleep ;
And while pale Melancholy hides to weep,
Fame, with glittering wing, shall fan the fire,
To shed new lustre on the Muse's lyre*
Oh ! if the graces of pathetic verse
Can add one trophy to thy sable hearse j
If the soft sympathy of sorrow's strain
Can, for a moment, soothe the throb of pam ;
Can check the drop that steals from memory's
eye,
Or calm affliction's meek and melting sigh ;
Where is the Muse? why sleep the tuneful
throng,
While Britain's Rafaelle claims the grateful song?
Ye solemn mourners, who, with footstep slow,
Prolong'd the sable line of public wo ;
Who, fondly crowding round his plumed bier,
Gave to his worth th' involuntary tear ;
Ye children of his school, who eft have hung
On the graced precepts of his tuneful tongue ;
Who many an hour in mute attention caught
The vivid lustre of his polish'd thought !*
Ye, who have felt, for ye have taste to feel,
The magic influence o'er your senses steal,
» Vide Sir Joshua Reynolds' Discourses delivered
at the Royal Academy.
Z
178
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
When eloquently chaste, from wisdom's page,
He drew each model for a rising age !
Say, is no kind, no grateful tribute due
To him, who twined immortal wreaths for you?
Who, from the dawn of youth, to manhood's
prime, [time;
Snatch'd hidden beauties from the wings of
Who gave new lessons to your wondering sight,
Drawn from the chaos of oblivious night ;
Where, chain'd by ignorance, in Envy's cave,
1 he art he courted from a chilling grave ;
W herb native genius faded, unadmired,
While emulation's glorious- flame expired ;
"Till Reynolds, braving Envy's recreant spell,
Dragg'd the huge monster from her thorny cell;
Who, shrinking from his mild benignant eye,
Subdued, to Stygian darkness fled — to die !
Now round the brows of British genius play
The broad effulgent beams of mental day !
See, native taste the vivid scene imbues
With the rich lustre of the rainbow's hues !
See, from each pencil varying beauties rise,
While the proud canvas glows with mingling
See, fancy gives* to every mimic form, dyes :
New power to fascinate, new grace to charm,
While o'er each finish'd, each attractive part,
Nature stands wondering at the touch of art.
Oh ! if philanthropy can boast the power,
To soothe affliction's dark and dreary hour ;
If he, who meekly shunn'd the flatterer's gaze,
Whose splendid talents shrunk from venal
praise;
Who, in retirement s consecrated bowers,
Strew'd the rough path of life with modest
flowers ;
x Or with a fostering hand, to genius just,
Twined his own laurel round each youthful
bust;
Can bid your grateful bosoms proudly glow
With innate praise, — beyond the pomp of wo
Now, true to native worth, assert his claim
To the best diadem ! the wreath of fame !
And thou, Contention ! fiend, of Envy born,
Hide in some haunt profane thy mien forlorn ;
Howl in some flinty cave's impervious gloom,
Nor break the sacred silence of the tomb
Go, prey on hearts congenial with thy own,
Drink their big tears, and mingle in their groan !
Sate thy mean rage upon some idiot's breast,
But let the sainted shade of Genius rest !
Beneath yon lofty dome that props the skies,
Low on " the lap of earth" your patron lies :
Cold is that hand, that gave the touch divine,
Which bade the mimic orbs of reason shine ;
Closed is that eye, which beam'd with living
light,
That gave the mental soul to mortal sight ;
For, by the matchless wonders of his art,
The outward mien bespoke the hidden heart!
Taste, feeling, character, his pencil knew,
And Truth acknowledged e'en what Fancy
drew!
So just to nature every part combined,
Each feature mark'd the tenor of the mind !
'Twas his, with varying excellence, to show
Stern manhood's dignity, and beauty's glow !
To paint the perfect form, the witching face,
With Guido'8 softness, and with Titian's grace)
The dimpled cherub at the mother's breast,
The smile serene, that spoke the patent blest ;
The poet's vivid thought, that shone divine
Through the rich mazes of each finish'd line
The tale* that bids the tear of pity flow ;
The frenzied gaze of petrifying wo ;
The dying father, fix'd in horror wild
O'er the shrunk image of his famish' d child.—
Ah ! stay, my Muse— nor trace the madden-
ing scene,
Nor paint the starting eye, the frantic mien :
Turn from the picture of distracting woes ;
Turn from each charm, that beauty's smile be-
stows ;
Go, form a wreath, Time's temples to adorn,
Bedeck'd with many a rose, and many,a thorn ;
Go, bind the hero's brow with deathless bays ;
Or to calm friendship chant the note of praise;
Or with a feather, stol'n from fancy's wing,
Sweep, with Ugh t hand, the gay fantastic string;
But leave, oh, leave thy fond lamenting Song,
The feeble echo of a wondering throng !—
Canst thou with brighter tints adorn the rose,
Where Nature's vivid blush divinely glows?
Say, canst thou add one ray to Heaven's own
light;
Or give to Alpine snows a purer white ?
Canst thou increase the diamond's burning hues,
Or to the flower a richer scent infuse ?
Say, canst thou snatch, by sympathy sublime,
One kindred bosom from the grasp of time ?
Ah, no ! — then bind with cypress boughs thy
lyre,
Mute be its chords, and quench'd its sacred fire;
For dimly gleam the poet's votive lays,
'Midst the vast splendours of a nation's praise?
Yet, blest shall be the Muse, and blest the art,
That thrills in dulcet murmurs through the
heart;
That pictures Nature in her fairest form ;
That bids the torpid soul to rapture warm ;
That soothes the mind, by sorrow's load op-
press'd,
And bends, with force supreme, the tyrant's
crest.
# The Story of Count Ugolino, painted by Sir
Joshua Reynolds.
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Blest be the wangling tones, whose magic leads
Through splendid halls— o'er dew-bespangled
meads;
The clay-built hut, with rapture to explore,
Or round the diadem's proud gems to soar ;
That quell the force of superstitious rage,
And shed new lustre o'er the classic page.
Blest poetry ! whose witching sounds impart
All that can harmonise, or grace the heart ;
'Tis thine with lenient balm, to cure despair,
To check the throbbings of unpitied care ;
To bind with weeping flowers the lover's urn ;
To bid ambition's brightest incense burn !
Such are thy attributes, then tune thy lays,
To chant thy sister art's coeval praise ^
To Painting lift the loud extatic song,
Wake with celestial notes the vapid throng ;
And, as the rapturous strains exulting rise
On truth's white pinions to th' opening skies,
Haply, some Rafaelle's spirit hovering near,
Shall greet the Pajan with a grateful tear,
And, proud to share the glories of the lay, '
Shall bear its echoes to the realms of day.
There, Reynolds, shalt thou claim the votive
line;
There, smiling, own the artless picture thine :
And though thy form lies mouldering in the
tomb,
Immortal Genius braves the common doom ;
Though lost, still honour'd by each feeling heart,
That shared thy converse, or admired thy art :
And though thy voice no more can charm the
breast,
Though thy pure spirit mingles with the blest,
Thy sainted ashes shall e'en death defy ;
For Fame, which Virtue gives— shall never die.
O Britain's darling— nature's favourite child,
In judgment strong, in manners sweetly mild !
Could my fond lay one added wreath bestow,
Long as my. heart laments, my strain should
flow;
But, ah! where'er my wandering fancy leans,
Whether to pine-dad hills, or flowery meads ;
Whether at twilight's calm and pensive hour,
I weep, unseen, in some lone ivy'd bower,
Or, with high-bounding bosom, haste along,
To greet the matin lark's melodious song ;
Whether in tones forlorn, or themes divine,
Still shall the strain, the tuneful strain be
thine :
MONODY. 179
For all that nature yields, 'twas thine to trace,
LoVe's sportive smile, and wisdom's sober grace,
Fear, rage, relentless vengeance, shriveU'd care.
And the worst misery of supreme despair :
Then where shall Fancy turn, or Truth aspire
To catch new subjects for her mournful lyre ?
Where shall the Muse untrodden paths explore?
Where find a theme untry'd by thee before ?
Vain is her search ! thy penetrating skill
Fashion'd each scene, obedient to thy will ;
And stealing every flower by nature drest,
Left but the thorn of wo, to pierce her breast.
High o'er the eastern hill, day's burning eye
Darts streams of radiance through the severing
sky!
The upland mead reflects a vivid glow
On the calm bosom of the vale below :
Soon flames meridian lustre o'er the scene ;
The out-stretch'd landscape glows with brighter
green ;
Soft silky blossoms, bathed in lingering dews,
Ope their sweet breasts, and blush with deeper
hues:
But when chill twilight, stealing o'er the west,
Spreads her grey mantle on Eve's humid breast ;
All nature mourns ! obtrusive shadows veil
The towering mountain and the lowly dale !
While each meek blossom, scarcely waked to
birth,
Hides its shrunk head,— and, weeping, fades to
earth !
So Reynolds shone ! the Phoebus of his day,
While art and science own'd his genial ray :
And since those orbs that shed celestial light,
Are closed and faded in impervious night;
By the mild precepts of his social hours ;
By the strong magic of his mental powers ;
By his meek diffidence, his modest mien;
His solid judgment, and his soul serene !
O ye ! who owe to each the meed of praise,
Who shared the converse of his blameless days ;
Who, living, own'd the virtues of his heart,
Who mark'd the rising glories of his art ;
Still guard his fame! and when, to happier
skies,
Like him ye mourn, each fainted spirit flies !
May the fond Muse, to worth and genius true,
With equal justice form a wreath for you !
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SAPPHO AND PHAON:
SERIES OF LEGITIMATE SONNETS.
Flendus amor metes estj elegeia fiebile carmen ;
Nonfacit ad lacrymas barbitos ulla meas. Ovid.
Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow,
And toned my heart to elegies of we. Pop*.
SONNET INTRODUCTORY.
Favour'd by Heaven are tnose, ordsin'd to taste
The Hiss supreme that kindles fancy's fire ;
Whose magic fingers sweep the Muse's lyre,
In varying cadence, eloquently chaste !
Well may the mind, with tuneful numbers
graced,
To fame's immortal attributes aspire*
Above the treacherous spells of low desire,
That wound the sense, by vulgar joys debased.
For thou, blest Poesy ! with godlike powers
To calm the miseries of man, wert given ;
When passion rends, and hopeless love devours,
By memory goaded, and by frenzy driven,
'Tis thine to guide him 'midst Elysian bowers,
And show his fainting soul — a glimpse of
Heaven.
SONNET II.
High en a rock, coeval wi& the skies,
A temple stands, rear'd by immortal powers
To Chastity divine ! ambrosial flowers,
Twining round icicles, in columns rise,
Mingling with pendent gems of orient dyes !
Piercing the air, a golden crescent ttfwers,
"Veil'd by transparent clouds ; while smiling
hours
Shake from their varying wings— celestial joys !
The steps of spotless marble, scatter'd o'er
With deathless roses, arm'd with many a thorn,
Lead to the altar. On the frozen floor,
Studded with tear-drops petrified by scorn,
Pale vestals kneel the goddess to adore,
While Love, his arrows broke, retires forlorn.
SONNET III.
Trxav to yon vale beneath, whose tangled shade
Excludes the blazing torch of noon-day light,
Where sportive fawns, and dimpled loves
invite,
The bower of Pleasure opens to the glade :
Lull'd by soft flutes, on leaves of violets laid,
There witching Beauty greets the ravish'd
More gentle than the arbitress of night [sight,
In all her silvery panoply array 'd ! [ground,
The birds breathe bliss ! light zephyrs kiss the
Stealing the hyacinth's divine perfume ;
While from pellucid fountains glittering round,
Small tinkling rills bid rival flowerets bloom !
Here, laughing Cupids bathe the bosom's
wound. ;
There, tyrant passion finds a glorious tomb !
SONNET IV.
Why, when I gaze on Phaon's beauteous eyes,
Why does each thought in wild disorder stray ?
Wny does each fainting faculty decay,
And my chill'd breast in throbbing tumults rise?
Mute on the ground my lyre neglected lies,
The Muse forgot, and lost the melting lay ;
My down-cast looks, my faltering lips betray,
That stung by hopeless passion,— Sappho dies !
Now on a bank of cypress let me rest ;
Come, tuneful maids, ye pupils of my care,
Come, with your dulcet numbers soothe my
breast ;
And, as the soft vibrations float on air,
Let pity waft my spirit to the blest,
To mock the barbarous triumphs of despair !
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SONNET V.
SAPPHO AND PHAON.
SONNET VIII.
181
Oh ! how can Lore exulting Reason quell !
How fades each nobler passion from' his gaze !
E'en fame, that cherishes the poet's lays,
That fame ill-fated Sappho loved so well.
Lost is the wretch, who in his fatal spell
Wastes the short summer of delicious days,
And from the tranquil path of wisdom strays,
In passion's thorny wild forlorn to dwell.
O ye ! who in that sacred temple smile
"Where holy innocence resides enshrined ;
Who fear not sorrow, and who know not guile,
Each thought composed, and every wish re-
sign'd ; [wile
Tempt not the path where pleasure's flowery
In sweet, but poisonous fetters, holds the mind.
SONNET VI.
Is it to love, to fix the tender gaze,
To hide the timid blush, and steal away ;
To shun the busy world, and waste the day
In some rude mountain's solitary maze ?
Is it to chant one name in ceaseless lays,
To hear no words that other tongues can say,
To watch the pale moon's melancholy ray,
To chide in fondness and in folly praise ?
Is it to pour th' involuntary sigh,
To dream of bliss, and wake new pangs to prove ;
To talk, in fancy, with the speaking eye,
Then start with jealousy and wildly rove ;
Is it to loathe the light, and wish to die?
For these I feel,— and feel that they are love.
SONNET VII.
Lome, Reason, come ! each nerve rebellious bind,
Lull the fierce tempest of my feverish soul ;
Come, with the magic of thy meek control,
And check the wayward wanderings of my
mind : *
Estranged from thee, no solace can I find ;
O'er my rapt brain, where pensive visions
stole,
Now passion reigns and stormy tumults roll :
So the smooth sea obeys the furious wind !
In vain philosophy unfolds her store,
O'erwhelm'd is every source of pure delight;
Dim is the golden page of wisdom's lore ;
AH nature fades before my sick'ning sight :
For what bright scene can fancy's eye explore
Midst dreary labyrinths of mental night ?
W«t, through each aching vein, with lazy pace,
Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart,
While, from its source, each wild convulsive
start
Tears the scorch'd roses from my burning face 7
In vain, O Lesbian vales ! your charms I trace !
Vain is the poet's theme, the sculptor's art ;
No more the lyre its magic can impart,
Though waked to sound with more than mortal
grace!
Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove
That passion mocks the empty boast of fame ;
Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love,
Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame !
Oh ! may th' extatic thought his bosom move,
And sighs of rapture fan the blush of shame !
SONNET IX.
Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bowers,
Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth ;
Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of
mirth,
In clamorous revels waste the midnight hours;
Who, link'd in flaunting bands of mountain
flowers,
Weave your wild mazes o'er the dewy earth,
Ere the fierce lord of lustre rushes forth,
And o'er the world his beamy radiance pours !
Oft has your clanking cymbal's maddening
strain,
Loud ringing through the torch-illumined grove,
Lured my loved Phaon from the youthful
train,
Through rugged dells, o'er craggy rocks to rove ;
Then how can she his vagrant heart detain,
Whose lyre throbs only to the touch of love ?
SONNET X.
Dangerous to hear is that melodious tongue,
And fatal to the sense those murderous eyes,
Where in a sapphire sheath love's arrow lies,
Himself conceal'd the crystal haunts among !
Oft o'er that form enamour'd have I hung,
On that smooth cheek to mark the deep'ning
dyes, [rise,
While from that lip the fragrant breath would
That lip, like Cupid's bow, with rubies strung !
Still let me gaze upon that polish 'd brow,
O'er which the golden hair luxuriant plays;
So, on the modest lily's leaves of snow
The proud sun revels in resplendent rays !
Warm as his beams this sensate heart shall
glow,
1 ill life's last hour with Pbaen'e self decays!
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182 MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
SONNET XI. SONNET XIV.
O Reason ! vaunted sovereign of the mind !
Thou pompous vision with a sounding name !
Canst thou the soul's rebellious passions tame ?
Can'st thou in spells the vagrant fancy bind ?
Ah, no ! capricious as the wavering wind
Are sighs of love that dim thy boasted flame ;
While Folly's torch consumes the wreath of
fame, [bind.
And Pleasure's hands the sheaves of truth un-
Press'd by the storms of fate, Hope shrinks
and dies !
Frenzy darts forth in mightiest ills array'd ;
Around thy throne destructive tumults rise,
And hell-fraught jealousies thy rights invade !
Then, what art thou, O idol of the wis*?
A visionary theme !— a gorgeous shade !
SONNET XII.
Now, o'er the tesselated pavement strew
Fresh saffron, steep'd in essence of the rose,
While down yon agate column gently flows
A glittering streamlet of ambrosial dew !
My Fhaon smiles ! the rich carnation's hue,
On his flush'd cheek in conscious lustre glows,
While o'er his breast enamour'd Venus throws
Her starry mantle of celestial blue !
Breathe soft, ye dulcet flutes, among the trees
Where clustering boughs with golden citron
twine;
While slow vibrations, dying on the breeze
Shall soothe his soul with harmony divine ! j
Then let my form his yielding fancy seize,
And all his fondest wishes blend with mine.
SONNET XIII.
Bring, bring, to deck my brow, ye sylvan girls,
A roseate wreath ; nor for my waving hair
The costly band of studded gernn prepare,
Of sparkling chrysolite or orient pearls :
Love o'er my head his canopy unfurls,
His purple pinions fan the whispering air;
Mocking the golden sandal, rich and rare,
Beneath my feet the fragrant woodbine curls.
Bring the thin robe, to fold about my breast,
White as the downy swan; while round my
waist
, Let leaves of glossy myrtle bind the vest,
Not idly gay, but elegantly chaste !
Love scorns the nymph in wanton trappings
drest; [graced.
And charms the most conceal'd, are doubly
Comb, soft iEolian harp, while zephyr plays
Along the meek vibration of thy strings,
As twilight's hand her modest mantle brings,
Blending with sober grey the western blaze !
O ! prompt my Fhaon's dreams with tenderest
lays,
Ere night o'ershade thee with its humid wings,
While the lorn philomel his sorrow sings
In leafy cradle, red with parting rays !
Slow let thy dulcet tones on ether glide ;
So steals the murmur of the amorous dove ;
The mazy legions swarm on every side,
To lulling sounds the sunny people move !
Let not the wise their little world deride,
The smallest sting can wound the breast of love.
SONNET XV.
Now round my favour'd grot let roses rise,
To strew the bank where Fhaon wakes from
rest ;
O! happy buds! to kiss his burning breast,
And die beneath the lustre of his eyes !
Now let the timbrils echo to the skies,
Now damsels sprinkle cassia on his vest,
With odorous wreaths of constant myrtle
drest, [dyes !
And flowers, deep tinted with the rainbow's
From cups of porphyry let nectar flow,
Rich as the perfume of Phoenicia's vine !
Now let hia dimpling cheek with rapture glow,
While round his heart love's mystic fetters
twine ;
And let the Grecian lyre its aid bestow,
In songs of triumph to proclaim him mine !
SONNET XVI.
Delusive hope ! more transient than the ray
That leads pale twilight to her dusky bed,
O'er woodland glen, or breezy mountain's
head,
Lingering to catch the parting sigh of day.
Hence, with thy visionary charms, away !
Nor o'er my path the flowers of fancy spread ;
Thy airy dreams on peaceful pillows shed,
And weave for thoughtless brows a garland gay.
Farewell, low valleys ; dizzy cliffs, farewell !
Small vagrant rills, that murmur as ye flow ;
Dark bosom' d labyrinth, and thorny dell ;
The task be mine all pleasures to forego ;
To hide where meditation loves to dwell,
And feed my soul with luxury of wo !
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SAPPHO AND PHAON.
183
SONNET XVII.
Iyovx steals unheeded o'er the tranquil mind,
As summer breezes fan the sleeping main,
Slow through each fibre creeps the subtle pain,
Till closely round the yielding bosom twined.
Vain is the hope the magic to unbind,
The potent mischief riots in the brain,
Grasps every thought, and burns in every vein,
'Till in the heart the tyrant lives enshrined.
Oh! victor strong! bending the vanquish'd
frame; (
Sweet is the thraldom that thou Iridst us prove !
And sacred is the tear thy victims claim,
For blest are those whom sighs of sorrow move !
Then, nymphs, beware how ye profane my
name,
Nor blame my weakness, till like me ye love !
SONNET XVIII.
Why art thou changed? O Phaon! tell me
why ? [cay ;
Love flies reproach, when passion feels de-
Or, I would paint the raptures of that day,
When, in sweet converse, mingling sigh with sigh,
I mark'd the graceful languor of thine eye
As on a shady bank entranced we lay :
O ! eyes ! wbose'beamy radiance stole away,
As stars fade trembling from the burning sky !
Why art thou changed, dear source of all my
woes?
Though dark my bosom's tint, through every
vein
A ruoy tide of purest lustre flows,
Warm'd by thy love, or chill'd by thy disdain ;
And yet no bliss this sensate being knows;
Ah ! why is rapture so allied to (pain?
SONNET XIX.
Farewell, ye coral caves, ye pearly sands,
Ye waving woods that crown yon lofty steep ;
Farewell, ye nereids of the glittering deep,
Ye mountain tribes, ye fawns, ye sylvan bands ;
On the bleak rock your frantic minstrel stands,
Each task forgot, save that, to sigh and weep :
In vain the strings her burning fingers sweep,
No more her touch the Grecian lyre commands !
In Circe's cave my faithless Phaon's laid,
Her demons dress his brow with opiate flowers ;
Or, loitering in the brown pomegranate shade,
Beguile with amorous strains the fateful hours ;
While Sappho's lips, to paly ashes fade,
And sorrow's cankering worm her heart de-
vours !
SONNET XX.
Oh ! I could toil for thee o'er burning plains ;
Could smile at poverty's disastrous blow ;
With thee could wander 'midst a world of
snow,
Where one long night o'er frozen Scythia reigns.
Severed from thee, my sickening soul disdains
The thrilling thought, the blissful dream to
know;
And canst thou give my days to endless wo,
Requiting sweetest bliss with cureless pains ?
Away, false fear ! nor think capricious fate
Would lodge a demon in a form divine !
Sooner the dove shall seek a tyger mate,
Or the soft snow-drop round the thistle twine ;
Yet, yet, I dread to hope, nor dare, to hate,
Too proud to sue ! too tender to resign!
SONNET XXI.
Why do 1 live to loath the cheerful day,
To shun the smiles of fame, and mark the
hours [showers
On tardy pinions move, while ceaseless
Down my wan cheek in lucid currents stray ?
My tresses all unbound, nor gems display,
Nor scents Arabian ! on my path no flowers
Imbibe the morn's resuscitating powers,
For one blank sorrow saddens all my way !
As slow the radiant son of reason rose,*
Through tears my dying parents saw it shine ;
A brother's frailties swell'd the tide of
woes,—
And, keener far, maternal griefs were mine !
Phaon ! if soon these weary eyes shall close,
Oh! must that task, that mournful task, be
thine ?
SONNET XXII.
Wild is the foaming sea ! the surges roar !
And nimbly dart the livid lightnings round !
On the rent rock the angry waves rebound ;
Ah me ! the lessening bark is seen no more !
Along the margin of the trembling shore,
Loud as the blast my frantic cries shall sound,
My storm-drench' d limbs the flinty fragments
wound,
And o'er my bleeding breast the billows pour !
• Sex mihi natalea ierant, cum lecta parentis
Ante diem lacrymas ossa bibere meas.
Arsit inops frater, viotns meretricis amore ;
Mistaque cum turpi damna pudore tulit. — Ovin.
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I$4 BIRS. ROBINSON'S
Fhaon ! return ! ye winds, O ! waft the strain
To his swift bark ; ye barbarous waves, forbear !
Taunt not the anguish of aHMrer's brain,
Nor feebly emulate the soul's despair !
For howling winds, and foaming seas in vain
Assail the breast when passion rages there 1
SONNET XXIII.
To Etna's scorching sands my Pbaon flies !*
False youth! can other charms attractive
prove?
Soy, can Sicilian loves thy passions move,
Play round thy heart, and fix thy fickle eyes,
While in despair the Lesbian Sappho dies?
Has spring for thee a crown of poppies wove,
Or dost thou languish in th Idalian grove,
Whose altar kindles, fann'd by lovers' sighs ?
' Ah ! think, that while on ^Etna's shores you
stray,
A fire, more fierce than Etna's, fills my
breast ;f
Nor deck Sicilian nymphs with garlands gay,
While Sappho's brows with cypress wreaths are
drest;
Let one kind word my weary woes repay,
Or, in eternal slumbers bid them rest.
POEMS.
SONNET XXV.
SONNET XXIV.
O thou meek orb ! that stealing o'er the dale,
Cheer'st with thy modest beams the noon
of night !
On the smooth lake diffusing silvery light,
Sublimely still, and beautifully pale [
What can thy cool and.ptacid eye avail,
Where fierce despair absorbs the mental sight,
While inbred glooms the vagrant thoughts
invite,
To tempt the gnlph where howling fiends assail ?
O night ! all nature owns thy temper'd
power;
l*hy solemn pause, thy dews, thy pensive beam ;
Thy sweet breath whispering in the moon-
light bower,
While fainting flowerets kiss the wandering
stream !
let, vain is every charm ! and vain the hour,
That brings to maddening love, no soothing
dream!
* Arva Phaon celebrat diverea Typhoidcs Mtnve.
He calor JEtuaeo non minor igne coquit.— Ovid.
Canst thou forget, O Idol of my soul !
Thy Sappho's voice, her form, ber dulcet lyre !
That melting every thought to fond desire,
Bade sweet delirium o'er thy senses roll ?
Can'st thou, so soon, renounce the blest control
That calm'd with Pity's tears Love's ragiog
,fire, [wire,
While Hope, slow breathing on the trembling
In every note with soft persuasion stole ?
Oh ! sovereign of my heart ! return ! return !
For me no spring appears, no summers bloom,
No sun- beams glitter, and no altars burn !
The mind's dark winter of eternal gloom
Shows 'midst the waste a solitary urn,
A blighted laurel, and a mouldering tomb !
SONNET XXVI.
Where antique woods o'er-hang the mountain's
crest,
And mid-day glooms in solemn silence lour,
Philosophy, go seek a lonely bower,
And waste life's fervid noon in fancied rest.
Go, where the bird of sorrow weaves her nest,
Cooing, in sadness sweet, through night's dim
hour ; [flower
Go, cull the dew-drops from each potent
ITiat medicines to the cold and reasoning breast!
Go, where the brook in liquid lapse steals by,
Scarce heard amidst the mingling echoes round,
What time the moon fades slowly down the
sky, [bound :
And slumbering zephyrs moan, in caverns
Be these thy pleasures, dull Philosophy !
Nor vaunt the balm to heal a lover's wound.
SONNET XXVII.
O ye bright stars ! that on the ebon fields
Of heaven's vast empire, trembling seem to
stand;
'Till rosy morn unlocks her portal bland,
Where the proud sun his fiery banner wields !
To flames, less fierce than mine, your lustre
yields,
And powers more strong my countless tears
command ; [hand,
Love strikes the feeling heart with ruthless
And only spares the breast which dulness shields !
Since, then, capricious nature but bestows
The fine affections of the soul, to prove
A keener sense of desolating woes,
Far, far from me the empty boast remove ;
If bliss from coldness, pain from passion flows,
Ah ! who would wibh to feel, or learn to love?
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SAPPHO AND PHAON.
SONNET XXVIII. SONNET XXXI.
185
Weak is the sophistry, and vain the art,
That whispers patience to the mind's despair !
That hids reflection bathe the wounds of care,
While hope with pleasing phantoms soethes their
For memory still reluctant te depart [smart ;
From the dear spot, once rich in prospects fair,
Bids the fond soul enamour' d linger there,
And its least charm is grateful to the heart !
He never loved, who could not muse and sigh,
Spangling the sacred turf with frequent tears,
Where the small rivulet, that ripples by,
Recalls the scenes of past and happier years,
When, on its banks, he watch'd the speaking
eye,
And one sweet smile o'erpaid an age of fears !
SONNET XXIX.
Fa&xwxll, ye towering cedars, in whose shade,
Lull'd by the nightingale, I sunk to rest,
While spicy breezes hover'd o'er my breast
To fen my cheek, in deep'ning tints array'd,
While amorous insects, humming round me,
play'd, [quest ;
Each flower forsook, of prouder sweets in
Of glowing lips, in humid fragrance drest,
That mock'd the sunny Hybla's vaunted aid !
Farewell, ye limpid rivers ! oh ! farewell !
No more shall Sappho to your grots repair :
No more your white waves to her bosom
swell,
Or your dank weeds entwine her floating hair ;
As erst, when Venus in her sparry cell
Wept, to behold a brighter goddess there !
SONNET XXX.
O'x* the tall cliff that bounds the billowy main,
Shadowing the surge that sweeps the lonely
strand,
While the thin vapours break along the sand,
Day's harbinger unfolds the liquid plain.
The rude sea murmurs, mournful as the strain
That love-lorn minstrels strike with trembling
hand, [band
While from their green beds rise the Syren
With tongues aerial to repeat my pain !
The vessel rocks beside the pebbly shore,
The foamy curls its gaudy trappings lave ;
Oh ! bark propitious ! bear me gently o'er ;
Breathe soft, ye winds ! rise slow, O swelling
wave ! [more :
Lesbos, these eyes shall meet thy sands no
I fly, to seek my lover, or my grave!
Far o'er the waves my lofty bark shall glide,
Love's frequsst sighs the fluttering sails shall
swell,
While to my native home I bid farewell,
Hope's snowy hand the burnish' d helm shall
guide!
Tritons shall sport amidst the yielding tide, '
Myriads of Cupids round the prow shall dwell,
And Venus, throned within her opal shell,
Shall proudly o'er the glittering billows ride J
Young dolphins, dashing in the golden spray,
Shall with their scaly forms illume the deep,
Tinged with the purple flush of sinking day,
Whose flaming wreath shall crown the distant
steep;
While on the breezy deck soft minstrels play,
And songs of love, the lover soothe to sleep !
SONNET XXXII.
Blest as the gods ! Sicilian maid, is he,*
The jouth whose soul thy yielding graces
charm ; [arm,
Who bound, O thraldom sweet ! by beauty's
In idle dalliance fondly sports with thee !
Blest as the gods ! that ivy throne to see, *
Throbbing with transports, tender, timid,
warm ! [swarm,
While round thy fragrant lips light zephyrs
As opening buds attract the wandering bee !
Yet, short is youthful passion's fervid hour ;
Soon shall another clasp the beauteous boy;
Soon shall a rival prove, in that gay bower, *
The pleasing torture of transcendent joy !
The bee flies sicken'd from the sweetesl
flower ;
The lightning's shaft but dazzles to destroy .'
SONNET XXXIII.
I wake ! delusive phantoms, hence, away !
Tempt not the weakness of a lover's breast !
The softest breeze can shake the halcyon's
nest,
And lightest clouds o'ercast the dawning ray !
'Twas but a vision ! Now, the star of day
Peers, like a gem o'er Etna's burning crest!
Welcome, ye hills, with golden vintage drest*
Sicilian forests brown, and vail ays gay !
•, Vide Sappho's Ode «,
Aa
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)ft£ MR6. ROBINSON'S
A mournful stranger, from the Lesbian isle,
Not strange in loftiest eulogy of song !
She who could teach the stoic's cheek to smile,
Thaw the cold heart, and chain the wondering
throng,
Can find no balm, leWs sorrows to beguile ;
Ah ! sorrows known* too soon ! and felt too
long!
SONNET XXXIV.
Vskus ! to thee, the Lesbian Muse shall sing,
The song, which Mltylenian youths admired,
When echo, amorous of the strain inspired,
Bade the wild rocks with maddening plaudits
ring!
Attend my prayer ! O queen of rapture ! bring
To these fond arms, him who my soul has
fired;
From these fond arms removed, yet still de-
sired,
Though love, exulting, spreads his varying wing !
Oh ' source of every joy ! of every care !
Blest Venus ! goddess of the zone divine !
To Phaon's bosom, Phaon's victim bear ;
So shall her warmest, tcnderest vows be thine !
For Venus, Sappho shall a wreath prepare,
And love be crown'd, immortal as the Nine !
POEMS.
SONNET XXXVI.
SONNET XXXV.
What means the mist opaque that veils these
eyes ; [day ?
Why does yon threatening tempest shroud the
Why does thy altar, Venus, fade away,
* And on my breast the dews of horror rise ?
Pbaon is false ! be dim, ye orient skies,
And let black Erebus succeed your ray ;
Let clashing thunders roll, and lightnings
play;
Fhaon is false ! and hopeless Sappho dies !
" Farewell! my Lesbian love,"* you might
have said,
Such sweet remembrance had some pity proved ;
Or coldly thus, " farewell, Oh ! Lesbian
maid !"
No task severe for one so fondly loved !
The gentle thought had soothed my wandering
shade,
From life's dark valley, and its thorns, removed !
> Pope.
Si tam certus eras hinc ire, modestius isses,
Et modo dixinscs Lcsbi puella, vale. — Ovid
Lead me, Sicilian maids, to haunted bowers,
While yon pale moon displays her faiftlest
beams,
O'er fading woodlands, and enchanted streams
Whose banks infect the breeze with poisonous
flowers. [towers,
Ah! lead me, where the barren mountain
Where no sounds echo, but the night-owl's
e creams;
Where some lone spirit of the desert gleams,
And lurid horrors wing the fateful hours
Now goaded frenzy grasps my shrinking brain,
Her touch absorbs the crystal fount of wo !
My blood rolls burning through each bursting
vein:
Away, lost lyre ! unless thou can'st bestow
A charm, to lull that agonizing pain,
Which those who never loved, can never know!
SONNET XXXVII.
When, in the gloomy mansion of the dead*
This withering heart, this faded form thtll
sleep: [weep,
When these fond eyes at length shall cease to
And earth '8 cold lap receive this feverish head;
Envy shall turn away, a tear to shed,
And time's obliterating pinions sweep
The spot, where poets shall their vigils keep,
To mourn and wander near my freezing bed !
Then, my pale ghost, upon th' ElysUua shore,
Shall smile, released from every mortal care ;
WJiile, doom'd love's victim to repine no
more,
My breast shall bathe in endless rapture there!
Ah ! no ! my restless shade would still de-
plore,
Nor taste that bliss, which Phaon did not share.
SONNET XXXVJ1I.
Oh sigh ! thou steal'st the herald of the breast,
The lover's fears, the lover's pangs, to tell ;
Thou bid'st with timid grace the bosom swell
Cheating the day of joy, the night of rest !
Oh ! lucid tears ! with eloquence confest,
Why on any fading cheek unheeded dwell,
Meek, as the dew-drops on the floweret's bell
By ruthless tempests to the green-sod prest.
Fond sigh, be hush'd! congeal, O slighted
tear!
Thy feeble powers the busy fates control !
Or if thy crystal streams again appear,
Let them, like Lethe's, to oblivion roll :
For love the tyrant plays, when hope is near.
And she who flies the lover, chains the soul i
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SAPPHO
SONNET XXXIX.
On the low margin of a murmuring stream,
As rapt in meditation's arms I lay,
Each aching sense in slumbers stale away,
While potent fancy form'd a soothing dream ;
O'er the Leueadian deep, a daraling beam
Shed the bland light of empyrean day !
But soon transparent shadows veil'd each ray,
While mystic visions sprang athwart the
AND PHAON. 197
To Phoebus only will I tune my lyre,
What suits with Sappho, Phoebus, suits with
thee!"»
Now to the hearing gulf they seem'd to bend,
And new across the sphery regions glide ;
Now in mid-air their dulcet voices blend :—
" Awake ! awake !'* the restless phalanx cried,
" See ocean yawns the lover's woes to end ;
Plunge the green wave, and bid thy griefs sub-
side!"
SONNET XL.
Yes, I will go, where circling whirlwinds rise,
Where threatening clouds in sable grandeur
lour;
Where the blast yells, the liquid columns pour,
And maddening billows combat with the skies !
There, while the demon of the tempest flies
On growing pinions through the troublous
hour,
The wild waves gasp impatient to devour,
And on the rock the Waken'd vulture cries !
Oh i dreadful solace to the stormy mind !
To me more pleasing than the valley's rest,
The woodland songsters, or the sportive kind,
That nip the turf, or prune the painted crest ;
For in despair alone the wretched find
That unction sweet which lulls the bleeding
breast!
SONNET XLI.
Oh ! canst thou bear to see this faded frame,
Deform'd and mangled by the rocky deep ?
Wilt thou remember, and forbear to weep,
My fatal fondness, and my peerless fame ?
Soon o'er this heart, now warm with passion's
fcme, [sweep ;
The howling winds and foamy waves shall
Those eyes be ever closed in death'* cold sleep,
And all of Sappho perish but her name !
Yet, if the Fates suspend their barbarous ire.
If days Jess mournful Heaven designs for me ;
If rocks grow kind, and winds and waves con-
spire,
To bear me softly on the swelling sea ;
SONNET XIJI,
While from the dizzy precipice I gaze,
The world receding from my pensive eyes,
High o'er my head the tyrant eagle flies.
Clothed in the sinking sun's transcendent blaze.
The meek-eyed moon, 'midst clouds of amber
plays,
As o'er the purpling plains of light she hies,
Till the last stream of living lustre dies,
And the cool concave owns her temper'd rays*
So shall this glowing, palpitating soul,
Welcome returning reason's placid beam,
While o'er my breast the waves Lethean roll,
To calm rebellious fancy's feverish dream ;
Then shall mv lyre disdain love's dread con-
trol,
And loftier passions prompt the loftier theme !
SONNET XLIII.
CONCLUSIVE.
Here droops the Muse ! while from her glowing
mind
Celestial sympathy, with humid eye,
Bids the light sylph, capricious Fancy, fly,
Time's restless wings with transient flowers to
bind!
For now, with folded arms and head inclined,
Reflection pours the deep and frequent sigh,
O'er the dark scroll of human destiny,
Where gaudy buds and wounding thorns are
twined.
Oh, sky-born Virtue ! sacred is thy name !
And though mysterious Fate, with frown se-
vere,
Oft decorates thy brows with wreaths of
feme,
Bespangled o'er with sorrow's chilling tear;
Yet shalt thou more than mortal raptures
claim,
The brightest planet of th' eternal sphere !
1 Pope.
Qrata lyram posui tibi Phoebe, noetria Sappho :
£onvenit ilia mihi, conyenit ilia tibi.— Ovid.
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188 MRS.
SONNET
TO AMICUS.
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Where gaudy blossoms o'er the tufted vale,
Whin the poor Exile, who, the live-long night,
Mark'd the pale moon-beam trembling on the
wave, [brave,
Doom'd, cold, forlorn, the howling winds to
From the bleak mountain spies morn's silvery
light;
Soon he forgets his toilsome journey past,
With patient smile descends the rugged steep,
And in the valley, shelter'd from the blast,
Looks gayly forward, and forgets to weep !
So the sad traveller, in this world of care,
Led through the mazy labyrinths of pain ;
Sooth'd by false vows, and chill'd by cold
'" disdain,
By turns, the slave of hope and dark despair ;
Still finds the balm, his anguish to beguile,
In Truth's unerring voice, and Friendship's
temper'd smile.
SONNET
TO INDEPENDENCE.
Supreme, enchanting power ! from whose blest
source
The human mind receives its purest joys,
'Tis thine to check Oppression's baneful course,
And smile indignant on Ambition's toys !
Thy calm and open eye alike disdains [art ;
The tyrant's threat, and the smooth flatterer's
The wealthy sycophant, in gilded chains,
Or the fair mask, that hides the recreant
heart.
O nymph adored ! still let my bosom share
Thy conscious joys, thy ecstacies divine !
Let tinsel glories deck the brow of Care;
Content and independence shall be mine !
So will I shun the base and little crowd,
Pitying the servile slaves, unpitied by the proud !
SONNET.
Where, through the starry curtains of the
night,
Soft whispering breezes wake the ruddy morn,
Whoso sparkling eye darts forth returning light,
Whose golden brows refulgent beams adorn :
Fling their soft breathings o'er the spicy gale,
From the lorn nightingale on yonder spray,
In melting murmurs steals the love-fraught
i*y;
Stranger to joy, and hopeless of relief,
At morn's proud glow, and twilight's pensive
hour,
Her widow'd breast its plaintive song shall
pour,
In all the luxury of tender grief :
For ah ! nor morn, nor fragrant gales can move
The faithful heart, that mourns a truant love.
SONNET
MY BELOVED DAUGHTER.
When Fate in ruthless rage assail' d my breast,
And Heaven, relentless, seaTd the harsh de-
cree;
Hope, placid soother of the mind distress'd,
To calm my rending sorrows— gave me thee.
In all the charms of innocence array' d,
'Tis thine to sprinkle patience on my woes,
As from thy voice celestial comforts flows,
Glancing bright lustre o'er each dreary shade.
Still may thy growing reason's light divine,
Illume with joy my melancholy bowers ;
Still may the beams of sacred virtue shine,
To deck thy spring of youth with thorniest
flowers :
So" shall their splendid attributes combine,
To shed soft sunshine on my wintry hours*
SONNET.
Night's dewy orb, that o'er yon limpid stream
Its silent light in soft refulgence throws ;
Yon 4impid stream, whose quivering bosom
shows
The tender radiance of the silvery beam :
Yon tangled wood, whose high and waving head
Hangs o'er the dashing torrent's frothy
source;
Which wildly bounding from its pebbly bed,
Through the lone valley winds its dimpling
course;
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SONNETS*
Have oft, full oft, been witness to my wo,
"When cold neglect, false hopes, and jealous
fears,
The ruby drops that in my bosom glow,
With icy touch transform' d to crystal tears ;
Dear precious gems, still shall your rays impart
The brightest lustre of the feeling heart.
189
SONNET.
THE PEASANT.
Widk o*er the barren plain the bleak wind flies,
Sweeps the high mountain's top, and with its
breath
Swells the curl'd river o'er the plain beneath,
Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies.
The hardy peasant in his little cot
Lights his small fire, his homely meal pre-
pares;
No pamper'd luxury, no splendid cares,
Invade the comforts of his humble lot.
Born to, endure, he labours through the day,
And when the midnight storm o'erspreads the
skies,
On a clean pallet peacefully he lies,
And sweetly sleeps the lonely hours away ;
Till at the peep of dawn he wakes to find,
Health in his veins, and rapture in his mind.
SONNET
TO INGRATITUDE.
He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one ;
All other crimes may pass for rirtues in faim.
Youwo.
I could have borne affliction's sharpest thorn ;
The sting of malice — poverty's deep wound ;
The sneers of vulgar pride, the idiot's scorn ;
Neglected love, false friendship's treacherous
sound;
I could, with patient smile, extract the dart
Base calumny had planted in my heart ;
The fangs of envy, agonizing pain ;
All, all, nor should my steady soul complain :
E'en had relentless Fate, with cruel power,
Darken'd the sunshine of each youthful day;
While from my path she snatch'd each transient
flower,
Not one soft sigh my sorrow should betray ;
But where ingratitude's fell poisons pour,
Hope shrinks subdued— and life's best joys
decay.
SONNET
TO EVENING.
Written under a tree, in the Woods of St. Amand, in
Flanders.
Sweet balmy hour !— dear to the pensive mind,
Oft have I watch'd thy dark and weeping
shade,
Oft have I hail'd thee in the dewy glade,
And dropp'd a tear of sympathy refined.
When bumming bees, hid in their golden bowers,
Sip the pure nectar of May's blushing rose,
Or faint with noon-day toils, their limbs re-
pose,
In baths of essence stol'n from sunny flowers.
Oft do I seek thy shade, dear withering tree,
Sad emblem of my own disastrous state !
Doom'd in the spring of life, alas ! like thee,
To fade, and droop beneath the frowns of
Fate;
Like thee, may Heaven to me the meed bestow,
To shelter sorrow's child, and soothe the tear of
SONNET.
- THE MARINER.
The sea-beat mariner, whose watchful eye
Full many a boisterous night hath waked to
weep;
When the keen blast descending from the sky,
Snatch'd his warm tear-drop from the raven-
ous deep.
Drench'd by the chilling rain, his dreary hour
Creeps slowly onward to the dawn of day ;
Till burning Phoebus, darting through the
shower,
Warms with his golden beam the frothy spray :
With lightning's swiftness he ascends the mast,
And cries, " Another tedious night is o'er;"
He spreads the swelling sail, he sees at last
His darling mistress, and his native shore ;
The restless wanderer then forgets past pain,
Steals a fond kiss, and braves his fate again.
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190 MM.
SONNET
TO PHILANTHROPY.
First blessing frail mortality can know !
Philanthropy divine ! all-healing power,
Wandering untired to seek the haunts of wo,
Where ruthless sorrow lingers to devour ;
Thou scorn'8t the mummery of empty show ;
Mankind thy kindred ! while from pole to pole.
They seek the same inevitable goal,
Stung by distinctions, that from custom grow.
Thou know'st all light is less than mental day,
The Ethiop's dusky brow, Cirtassia's rose,
Are but the varying tints of breathing clay !
Life's gilded pageant, dazzling as it goes,
Stops at the sepulchre, and fades away,
To let the beggar and the prince repose.
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
I To thee, I ween, full tedious seems the day ;
While lorn and slow the devious path you
rove,
Sighing soft sorrows on the garland wove
By young desire, of blossoms sweetly gay !
Oh ! blossoms ! frail and fading ! like the morn
Of love's first rapture ! beauteous all, and pure,
Deep hid beneath your charms lies misery's
thorn,
To bid the feeling breast a pang endure !
Then check thy wanderings, weary and for-
lorn,
And find in friendship's balm sick passion's cure.
SONNET,
Written among the Ruins cf an ancient Cattle in
Germany, in the year 1786.
Ye mesddering walla, where Titian colours
giow'd,
And the soft minstrel's echo charm'd the ear ;
Alas! how changed your dreary haunts ap-
pear,
The solitary screech-owl's dark abode.
Where in yon gothic wall fair forms divine,
Tripp'd with light heel, or swam with grace-
ful ease ;
Now clasping ivy round the columns twine,
And loathsome weeds infect the midnight
breeze.
Those turrets wasting in the northern blast,
No more with burnish'd radiance proudly
glow,
But in small fragments on the pavement cast,
Heap the wild ruin on the plain below ;
Mingling with dust thy mighty roofs are laid :
So man, the grandest work of Heaven, shall
fade.
SONNET.
LAURA TO PETRARCH.
O soutary wanderer ! whither stray
From the smooth path the dimpled pleasures
lavfc [grove,
From flowery meadow, and embowering
Where Hope and Fancy smiling, lead the way !
SONNET.
THE TEAR.
Ah !. lustrous gem, bright emblem of the heart,
That proudly scorns a borrow'd ray to share:
Whose gentle power can break the spells of
care,
And soothe with lenient balm the keenest smart
Whether from holy friendship's vow profaned,
Or the dire frenzy of unpHied love ;
Whether from oherish'd passion unrestrain'd,
Or the worst pang the jealous mind can prove :
Yet, if sad Memory, lingering o'er past love,
Calls thee, soft trembler, from thy crystal
throne,
And sternly bids thy pearly incense flow,
E'en when the treacherous phantom, hope, is
flown :
How fickle are the gifts thy rays impart,
At once the balm and poison of the heart !
SONNET.
Pale twilight ! wrapp'd in melancholy grey,
Thee I adore ! and all thy shadowy train :
Thy tears, that tremble on each blossom' d spray,
Thy breezy breath, that skims along the plain,
Fanning the bosom of the weary swain,
As home he saunters at the close of day,
While the hills echo at his thoughtless strain,
Of ditty old, or merry roundelay !
Where splendour gilds deceit, let pride control :
Mine be the low-roof d cot, and tranquil
mind, [fined,
Where truth, nnvarnish'd, calm, and uncon-
Shrinks not to scrutinize the conscious soul !
Let insects in meridian lustre shine ;
The cool, the pensive hour of mental bliss be
mine!
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SONNETS, jgi
SONNET. The bland and lustrous morn of mental grace
Thy touch contaminates : thy severing force
Breaks Friendship's charm; bids Honour's
wreath decay;
Tears the pure blush of love from Beauty's face ;
Arms bold Oppression in her ruthless course :
While the wide groaning world feels thy destruc-
tive sway.
O busy World ! since every passing day
Unfolds new scenes of agonizing wo ;
Say, whither shall the child of misery go ?
Where seek, 'mid thorns, one flower to deck his
way?
My stormy hour presents no cheering ray ;
For me, no summer morn shall proudly glow ;
Round my chill'd heart the winds of winter
blow,
While fainting Hope but lingers to decay.
Oh, barbarous world ! Why from my bleeding
breast
Bid peace, with all the pure affections, fly ?
While round my couch Despair, in horrors
dress'd,
From my torn heart extorts th eternal sigh.
Bid me, oh ! bid thy trembling victim rest,
J*or if he thus must live— 'tis heaven to die !
SONNET
TO LIBERTY.
Ah, Liberty ! transcendent and sublime !
Born in the mountain's solitary crest ;
Nature thy nurse ; thy sire, exulting Time ;
Truth the pure inmate of the glowing breast !
Oft dost thou wander by the billowy deep,
Scattering the sands that bind the level shore ;
Or, towering, brave the desolating roar,
That bids the tyrant tempest lash the steep!
*Tis thine, where sanguinary demons lower,
Amidst the thickening host to force thy way ;
To quell the minions of oppressive power,
And crush the vaunting nothings of a day !
Still shall the human mind thy name adore,
Till chaos reigns— and worlds shall be no more !
SONNET.
O gold ! thou poisonous dross, whose subtle
power [will ;
Can change men's souls, or captive take the
Thou, whose fell potency can save or kill,
Illume or darken life's precarious hour.
Thou tipp'st the leaves of fancy's fairest flower
With glittering drops: it feels the numbing
spell [ill
Creep through each fibre slow ; while every
Of sordid misery blossoms to devour.
SONNET,
WRITTEN AT SEA, SEPT. 1, 1792.
While o'er the waste of waters, loud and deep,
I dimly trace the cliffs of Albion's shore ;
While evening's shadows o'er the ocean sweep,
And wild winds whistle, as the billows roar ;
For the poor hopeless mariner I weep ;
For friends far off, and destined to deplore ;
Who on their downy pillows calmly sleep,
While he alas ! is doom'd to wake no more 1
Yet why fihovAdJhncy others' woes reveal ?
Have I not felt the rudest storms of fate,
And proved each pang the human heart can
feel?
Then Fortune, I defy thy fiercest hate
Henceforth, each setisate heart be hard as steel ;
For where Despair resides, Reflection comes
too late !
SONNET
TO AMICUS.
When o'er the darken'd globe, the wings of
night
Sprinkle soft dews, or fan the chilling wind ;
The solitary lover, hid from sight,
On the bleak rock, sits mournfully reclined :
Fix'd in the spells of melancholy thought.
Unmoved he hears the waves that dash below ;
While his fond heart, with dire destruction
fraught,
Feeds on the misery of lingering wo :
But when the jocund day, above the hills
Lifts its bright crest, the murky shadows fly ;
Hope's soothing voice his soul with rapture fills,
And checks the tear just trembling in his eye.
So the loved Muse flies from the vapid throng,
Till charm'd and waken'd by thy dulcet song .'
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102
MRS. HOBINSON'S POEMS.
STANZAS.
' Absence lessens small passions, and increases
great ones ; as the wind extinguishes tapers, and
kiudles fires."
RochefoucaulVs Moral Maxims,
Tell me, that nature welcomes rosy spring ;
That plenty weaves a garland for her breast ;
That summer spreads her renovated wing,
And smiles, in gay and glowing colours drest ;
Tell me, that rapture is her handmaid fair ;
But tell me not, that absence cures despair !
Tell me, autumnal suns, with fiercer power,
Come darting forth, earth's bosom to adorn ;
That many a whispering gale and silky flower,
Welcomes the lustrous glances of the morn ;
Tell me, that round her flutters fragrant air ;
But tell me not, that absence cures despair.
Tell me, that winter's howling winds, and rain,
Strip the thatch'd cot, and scatter ruin wide ;
That snows thick falling on the cheerless plain,
The scenes of pastime and of labour hide ;
Tell me, that man is but the prey of care ;
But tell me not, that absence cures despair !
Tell me, that melodies in every grove [vein,
Steal to the breast, and charm each throbbing
That hope gives swiftness to the wings of love,
Averts his dart, and heals his direst pain,
And bids blithe youth his softest transports
share ;
But tell me not, that absence cures despair !
Tell me, that beauty fascinates the heart,
And binds each captive sense in thraldom
sweet ;
That genius mocks the sting of envious art ;
That baseness only cherishes deceit ; [wear ;
Tell me, that falsehood candour's mark can
But tell me not, that absence cures despair !
Tell me, that wealth can purchase short-lived
fame;
That pride can trample on meek modest worth ;
That idiot souls are flatter'd by a name ;
That guilt is sanction'd by superior birth ;
Tell me, that vice assumes a semblance fair ;
But tell me not, that absence cures despair !
Tell me, that reason comes with sober eye,
'To wean the soul from life's delusive toys;
That dauntless truth, and mild philosophy,
Lead in their train imperishable joys ;
Tell me, that wisdom laughs at taunting care ;
But tell me not, that absence cures despair !
Each scene I've mark'd, and mark'd them all
decay ;
Youth, hope, meek-bosom'd friendship, pleas-
ure, pain ;
Cold winter's storms, and summer's radiant day;
Truth's mental bliss, and folly's low disdain :
And though condemn'd each mortal change to
share,
Still found, that absence could not cure despair !
CUPID SLEEPING.
INSCRIBED TO
GEORGINA, DUTCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE
Close in a woodbine's tangled shade,
The blooming god asleep was laid ;
His brows with mossy roses crown'd,
His golden darts lay scatter'd round ;
To shade his auburn curled head
A purple canopy was spread,
Which gently with the breezes play'd,
And shed around a soften'd shade.
Upon his downy smiling cheek,
Adorn'd with many a dimple sleek,
Beam'd glowing health, and tender blisses ;
His coral lips, which teem'd with kisses
Moist, glisten'd with ambrosial dew
That reach 'd the rose's deepest hue ;
His quiver on & bough was hung,
His bow lay carelessly unstrung ;
His breath mild odour scatter'd round,
His eyes an azure fillet bound :
On every side did zephyrs play
To fan the sultry beams of day ;
While the soft tenants of the grove,
Attuned their notes to plaintive love.
Thus lay the boy— when Devon's fee
Unknowing reach'd the lone retreat .
Surprised to see the beauteous child
Of every dangerous power beguiled !
Approaching near his mossy bed,
Soft Whispering to herself she said :
" Thou little imp, whose potent art
Bows low with grief the feeling heart ;
Whose thirst insatiate loves to sip
The nectar from the ruby lip ;
Whose barbarous joy is prone to seek
The soft carnation of the cheek ;
Now, bid thy tyrant sway farewell,
As thus I break each magic spell."
Snatch'd from the bough, where high it hun#
O'er her white shoulder straight she flung
The burnish'd quiver, golden dart,
And each vain emblem of his art ;
Borne from his power they now are seen.
The attributes of Beauty's queen !
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T.INES.
While Love in secret hides his tears ;
Dian the form of Venus wears ! *
LINES
FROM ANGELICA.f
I wake from dreams of proud delight,
Where gorgeous visions blest my sight !
Where fancy rear'd Elysian bowers,
Adorn'd with never-fading flowers ;
While radiant streams of beaming gold
Around the distant mountains roll'd !
And gossamer on light winds flew,
Sweeping the spangled fields of dew ;
And weaving with a zephyr's hand
A net-work o'er the glowing land.
The fervent orb, now spreading wide,
Shed all around a silvery tide ;
Fronuevery stem, from every flower,
Fast fell the soft and brilliant shower ;
Till with his flame-expanding eye
He traced the confines of the slcy,
While his gold banner, wide unfurl'd,
Stream'd glorious o'er the rolling world !
O visions of supreme delight !
Why did ye quit my cheated sight?
Why did I wake to mark the hour
When Winter's angry tempests lour ?
While on the warring whirlwinds fly
The fleecy fragments of the sky,
The pelting hail, the bleak blast wild,
That chills misfortune's shivering child ;
Where hopeless and forlorn she weeps,
Or to the dropping pent-house creeps,
To view with many a rending sigh
The lordly mansion towering nigh !
Where, while the keen blast cuts her breast,
The pamper'd cur sleeps warm at rest ;
While for a famish'd parent's woes
The tear of filial virtue flows,
There luxury spreads profusion wide,
To glut the iron breast of pride !
Hark ! the shrill winds are whistling round !
Thy mantle, winter, wraps the ground ;
In torrents fall thy hoarded tears,
Thy thickening breath absorbs the spheres ;
Thy ebon pinions spread dismay —
And mock the sun's enfeebled ray !
• The author takes this method of acknowledging
the very flattering distinction this Poem has re.
ceived, in the exquisite Drawing taken from tho
•object, by Mr. Westall.
f A novel, in three volumes, by the same author.
tec 193
O winter, fly, thou sternest child,
That from the mass of chaos wild,
'Mid storms and howling tempests grew,
Thy kindred seasons to subdue !
Hock'd by the hurricane, or cast
Upon the swift .wings of. the blast ;
Thy nurse, the boisterous north, whose hand
Bestowed the petrifying wand,
Taught thee, with desolating breath
To form the icy chains of death ;
Till with resistless fury proud,
Exulting, pitiless, and loud,
Thou bad* st faint nature own thy hour,
And smot'st her with a giant's power !
Now gliding on revolving years,
Thou chill'st the ocean, earth, and spheres!
Yet, transient is thy tyrant reign,
Ere nature wakes and smiles again ;
Ere spring leads on the rosy hours,
Calls forth her perfumes, tints, and flowers ;
Bids zephyrus unlock the streams,
And revel in the fostering beams,
While round the towering trunk they play,
To renovate the shrivell'd spray !
'Then up the darting shafts of light,
The insect myriads bend their flight,
And mingling in a mazy throng,
With rapture hum their busy song,
To greet the proud effulgent ray
That deigns to gild their little day !
Oh ! ye who nursed in misery's breast
Have long forgot the hour of rest !
Ye who have traced with ceaseless tears
The seasons of disastrous years,
Behold the gaudy painted fly,
The offspring of a sunny sky ;
And trust that He who gilds its wing
With all the rainbow hues of spring ;
Who gives the lark its plumage gay
To skim along -the floods of day ;
Who bids the busy labouring ant
Foresee the freezing hour of want;
Who guides the spider's vital loom
To weave th' unwary insect's doom,
Will teach the sensate reasoning mind,
To own his power, and bow resign 'd !
TO HIM
WHO LAMENTED SEEING A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN
The tear that falls from Lesbia's eye,
Down her soft cheek in pity flows;
As ether drops forsake the sky,
To cheer the drooping blushing rose 1
Bb
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19*
For, like the sun, her eyes diffuse
O'er her fair cheek so bright a ray,
That tears most fall like heavenly dews,
Lest the twin roses fade away !
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
THE ADMONITION.
AFTER THE MAMXEE OF THE ANCIEXT POETS.
Lat»y! 'tis somewhat strange to find
Yon still are pleasing, still are kind,
Still gay and lovely, fair and free,
To all— but me I
Ah ! lady ! when those azure eyes
A knight right loyal would surprise ;
If you are just, if you can see,
You'll turn to me !
I first adored you in your prime,
I follow'd you with restless time;
Yet still a thousand charms I see
That still please me I
Some would declare those eyes were less
With speaking lustre taught to bless ;
Yet temper'd sweetness now I see,
More dear tome!
Some would those scanty tresses scorn ;
I think thy brows they best adorn
When they no longer wanton free,
Except for me !
'Tis true they now are sprinkled o'er
With silvery lustre ; I adore
The placid hue— whose modesty
Most charmeth me !
They do not, like the golden day,
As erst in wild confusion play :
Such dazzling fires I hate to see,
They sicken me !
Thy smooth fair cheek its rosy hue
Hath lost ; but though 'tis gone, I view
The tear of sensibility—
Thatwitchethme!
Soft airs of tender languishment,
And sighs, with tears of discontent,
For boys' fond passion's spring may be—
But not for me !
I cannot jealous fear endure :
If wounded much, I seek a cure ;
I must be loved, fair nymph, or free :
So answer me ?
See
I swear to love you, If you prove
Deserving such a lover's love ;
I swear till death your slave to be :
Then list to me !
But first my love must be repaid :
I cannot see my being fade,
And sigh and mourn, unless I
You sigh with me :
Think, lady, you are past your prime,
And soon will be the slave of time !
For time will never constant be,
Lady, like me !
He changes with the passing hour,
He fades to dust the sweetest flower ;
And you again may never see
A swain like me !
'Tis autumn, lady I summer's o'er !
You will behold a spring no more !
Then let your winter moments be
Still gay with me !
THE
WAY TO KEEP HIM.
A lover, when he first essays
A lady's heart to gain,
A thousand tender fears betrays,
And talks of jealous pain !
All day he sighs, and sighing swears,
That love, and hope, and anxious cares,
Destroy his peace, his nights molest,
And agouize his " feeling breast !"
If not believed, he ardent pays
Obedient homage still !
And every gentle grace displays,
To gratify her will !
Where'er she goes, he follows true j
And if she flies him, he'll pursue ;
And if she frowns— he'll still adore ;
And if she scorns— he'll doat the more !
Let her another kindly treat,
He sighs in hopeless pain ;
Let her his eyes with coldness meet,
And every glance disdain ;
Let her avoid him, wayward prone,
To favour all, save him alone !
Let others see her always glad,
But let him find her— ever sad !
Thus would you keep a lover still,
Unkind and careless prove ;
For man is humble— treated ill !
And coldness fosters love !
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IMPROMPTU, Sec.
Spurn him with harshness, and he sighs ;
Most servile, when most cross'd ;
Reward with kindness—and he flies ;
Adore him— and he's lost !
IMPROMPTU.
Says Time to Love, « Thou idle boy !
Thy art is now a jest !
Thy raptures only serve to cloy,
And freeze the modern breast."
«< True," replies Love, " but why dost thou
This keen reproach bestow ;
Since 'tis before thy wing I bow,
: Thy scythe has laid me low ;
For what so dims the flame of Love?
(Since coldness is my crime)
Ah ! what can so destructive prove
As thou* O chilling Time !"
TO ARABELLA.
(km* tbi MAmrw or thb shousb roan.)
My love, whene'er those radiant eyes
Their sunshine on this planet throw,
A thousand arrows Love supplies,
To fill thy lover's heart with wo !
Lady ! when from that rosy lip
The angry word in haste you speak,
My heart is like to sinking ship,
And through my. stormy breast would break;
Yet, lady ! better thou shouldst chide,
Than I offend thy beauty's pride.
Lady, whene'er you deign to smile,
Though winter frown, it still is spring !
For joy and fancy all the while
Are fluttering on hope's sunny wing !
Then, lady ! smile, and let me prove
Each hour a summer day of love !
Bright eyes! then still your brilliance keep,
And lips still glow with ruby red ;
And time, oh ! never hope to sweep
With envious wing that golden head ;
For know, when round my fair you play,
That Love will turn your scythe away !
TASTE AND FASHION.
Says Fashion to Taste, "I am strangely per-
plex'd,
For nothing to please me you bring ;
With whims and with changes for ever I'm
vex'd,
And still fancy is wild on the wing !
195
" I've invented all things that caprice can devise,
I have mingled all colours — and still
The leaders of Fashion her fancy despise,
And in ridicule, laugh at my skill !
" I have dress' d and tm-dress'd the fair nymphs
of our land,
I've display 'd every charm they possess ;
Like their grand-mother Eve, I have led the
gay band,
Or like Venus, have taught them to bless."
" And 'tis* therefore they scorn you !' cried
Taste with a smile,
You have left them no charm to display !
When I led the blithe phalanx, 1 taught them
the while,
To be sparing, and decent, and gay !
" I told them, that beauty, when seen by all eyes,
Would the proud charm of novelty lose ;
And that he is most constant who fearfully sighs,
She the most happy who learns to refuse !"
Let the daughters of Fashion to Truth then give
ear,
Let them hide the fair charms they possess :
And tributes of Fame at their feet shall appear,
And mankind shall their empire confess.
IMPROMPTU
ox
* * * * #
When Myra bloom' d at gay fifteen,
Mankind proclaim'd her beauty's queen,
And every heart adored her :
Now Myra trembles at three-score ;
The barbarous sex, alas ! no more
A single glance afford her !
Now slander occupies her hours
And spleen her wither'd form devours,
Of " envious fate" complaining !
'Tis thus we see the rose decay,
And all its beauties fade away,
The thorn alone remaining !
FAIRY RHYMES.
OBERON'S INVITATION TO TITAN I A.
Oh ! come, my pretty love ! and we
Will climb the dewy hill together ;
An acorn shall our goblet be,
A rose our couch in sunny weather ;
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196
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Amidst its fragrant leaves we'll lie,
Listening the zephyrs passing by !
Come, come, my pretty love, and sip
The dew that from each herb is flowing ;
And let the insects round thy lip
With envy hover while 'tis glowing !
Beneath a spring-flower's bell we'll sing,
While southern gales shall fragrance bring.
Then haste, my pretty queen, and dress
Thy snowy breast with pearls of morning ;
Thy smiles shall charm, thy voice shall bless,
Thy beauty every grace adorning !
By dawn-light o'er the daisied ground
We'll sport, while fairies gambol round.
Ah ! why delay, my pretty love !
The sun Is sinking in the ocean,
The clear green waters slowly move,
The weary zephyrs scarce have motion !
Soon, soon the gloomy shades of night
Will want those eyes of starry light.
I've made thee, love, a canopy
Of tulips tinted rich— a cluster
Of golden cups is waving nigh,
Bathed in the moon-beams' dewy lustre !
The softest turf shall be our floor,
With twinkling dew-dro.ps spangled o'er !
Thy curtains are of insect's Wings,
With feather-grass festoon'd and corded ;
And, for their tassels, zephyr brings
The thistle's down, in winter hoarded.
Thy pillow is of swan-down fair,
" W T hich floats upon the summer air."
Now, Oberon, thy love attends,
His heart with doubt and terror swelling ;
While low his brow with sorrow bends,
To mark of love the lonely dwelling!
Oh ! come ! or ere night's shadows fly,
The chilling breeze shall bid me die !
TITANIA'S ANSWER TO OBERON.
In vain, for me, thy gifts display'd,
Meet the red eye of smiling morning $
I still will court the lonely shade,
Alike thy vows and splendours scorning !
Inconstant ! every fairy knows
Thy love is like the gale that blows !
Thy oaths are like the summer flowers,
No sooner made than quickly faded ;
Thy borne, like April's transient showers,
Now gay — and now by storms invaded !
Thy song is like the vagrant bird,
That sweet in every clime is heard !
Thy couch, so fragrant, rich, and gay,
Will fade ere love has learnt to sicken ;
And thou wilt wander far away,
While hope declines, by falsehood stricken :
And o'er the moonlight dewy space
A thousand rivals fear shall trace !
False lover ! to the shaggy steep
Titania flies, from thee and sorrow !
There, while beneath the waters sleep,
From night a sable veil I'll borrow,
And on a thorny pillow rest,
Beside the bird of pity's nest.
\
Yes, the lorn nightingale shall be *
My only friend in hopeless anguish ;
And to the star of evening we
Will tell, how faithful love can languish [
The owl shall watch us all night long,
Hooting the dreary cliiFs among J
Go ! vagrant lover ! 'mid the throng
Of fairy rovers seek a dwelling ;
While I in silence mourn my wrongs,
My sighs upon the cold breeze swelling :
Go ! sport in wanton, idle play,
While moonlight scatters mimic day.
Go, where the sun its splendour throws
Upon the crest of yon tall mountain-
Go, drink oblivion to love's woes,
Where evening gilds the lucid fountain :
Go, where inconstant zephyrs flee —
But think, ah ! think, no more of me !
THE
FORTUNE-TELLER,
A GYPSY TALE.
Lubin and Kate, as gossips tell,
Were lovers many a day ;
Lubin the damsel loved so well,
That folks pretend to say,
The silly, simple, doting lad
Was little less than loving mad :
A malady not known of late —
Among the little-loving great !
Kate liked the youth ; but womankind
Are sometimes given to range.
And oft the giddy sex, we find,
(They know not why)
When most they promise, soonest change,
And still for conquest sigh :
So 'twas with Kate; she, ever roving,
Was never fix'd, though always loving •
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THE
Stephen was Lubin's rival ; be
A rustic libertine was known ;
And many a blushing simple she
The rogue had left— to sigh alone !
Kate cared but little for the rover,
Yet she- resolved to have her way ;
For Stephen was the village lover,
And women sigh for sovereign sway :
And be, who has been known to r irit-
is always sought, and always wooing.
Stephen had long in secret sigh'd ;
And Stephen never was deny'd. '
Now Lubin was a modest swain,
And therefore treated with disdain :
For, it is said, in love and war,—
The boldest most successful are !
FORTUNE-TELLER. 197
One roguish girl, with sparkling eyes,
To win the handsome Lubin tries ;
She smiled, and by her speaking glance,
EnthralTd him in a wondering trance.
He thought her lovelier for than Kate,
And wish'd that she had been his mate ;
For when the fancy is on wing,
Variety's a dangerous thing :
And Fancy, when she learns to stray,
Will seldom keep the beaten way.
The gypsy girl, with speaking eyes,
Observed her pupil's fond surprise ;
She begg'd that he her hand would cross
With sixpence ; and that he should know
His future scene of gain and loss,
His weal and wo.—
Vows were to him but fairy things,
Borne on capricious Fancy's wings ;
And promises but phantoms airy,
Which falsehood form'd to cheat th' un-
wary;
For still deception was his trade :
And though his traffic well was known,
Still every trophy was his own,
Which the proud victor, love, displayed.
In short, this Stephen was the bane
Of every maid — and every swain !
Kate had, too often play'd the fool,
And now, at length, was caught ;
For she, who had been pleased to rule,
Was now, poor maiden, taught !
And Stephen ruled with boundless sway,
The rustic tyrant of his day.
Lubin had given inconstant Kate
Ten pounds, to buy her wedding gear :
And now, 'tis said, though somewhat late,
He thought his bargain rather dear.
For, lo ! the day before the pair
Had fix'd the marriage chain to wear,
A gypsy gang, a wandering set,
In a lone wood young Lubin met.
All round him press with canting tale,
And, in a jargon well design'd
To cheat the unsuspecting mind,
His listening ears assail.
Some promised riches ; others swore
He should by women be adored ;
And never sad, and never poor-
Live like a squire, or lord ;
Do what he pleased, and ne'er be brought
To shame — for what he did or thought ;
Seduce men's wives and daughters fair,
Spend wealth, while others toil'd in vain.
And scoff at honesty, aud swear,—
And scoff, and trick, and swear again 1
Lubin complies. And straight he hears
" That he had many long, long years ;
That he a maid inconstant loves,
Who to another slily roves ;
That a dark man his bane will be—
And poison his domestic hours ;
While a fair, woman, treacherously, [ers !"
Will dress his brow with — thorns and flow-
It happen'd, to confirm his care-
Stephen was dark, — and Kate was fair !
Nay more^ that " home his bride would bring
A little, alien, prattling thing
In just six moons !" Poor Lubin hears
All that confirms his jealous fears ;
Perplex'd and frantic, what to do
The cheated lover scarcely knew.
He flies to Kate, and straight he tells
The wonder that in magic dwells !
Speaks of the fortune-telling crew,
And how all things the vagrants knew.
Kate hears ; and soon determines, she
Will know her future destiny.
Swift to the wood she hies, though late,
To read the tablet of her fate.
The moon its crystal beam scarce show'd
Upon the darkly shadowed road ;
The hedge-row was the feasting place
'Where, round a little blazing wood,
The wandering, dingy, gabbling race
Crowded in merry mood.
And now she loiter'd near the scene,
Now peep'd the hazel copse between,
Fearful that Lubin might be near,
The story of her fate to hear.—
She saw the feasting circle gay
By the stol'n faggot's yellow light ;
She heard them, as, in sportive play,
They cheer'd the sullen gloom of night.
Nor was sly Kate by all unseen,
Peeping the hazel copse between !
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198
And now across the thicket side
A tatter'd, skulking youth she spied ;
He beckon'd her along, and soon,
Hid safely from the prying moon,
His hand with silver thrice she
" Tell me," said she, " my gains and losses !
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
For she was lorn, and many a day
Had, all alone, been doom'd to stray,
And many a night her bosom warm
Had throbb'd beneath the pelting storm ;
And still she cried, " the rain falls sweet,
It bathes the wounds of Marguerite."
" You gain a fool," the youth replies,
" You lose a lover too."
The false one blushes deep, and sighs,
For well the truth She knew !
" You gave to Stephen vows ; nay more,
You gave him favours rare :
And Lubin is condemn'd to share
What many others shared before !
A false, capricious, guilty heart,
Made up of folly, vice, and art,
Which only takes a wedded mate
To brand with shame a husband's fate."
" Hush ! hush!" cried Kate, "for Heaven's
sake, be
As secret as the grave !
For Lubin means to marry me ;
And if you will not me betray,
I for your silence well will pay ;
Five pounds this moment you shall have."
" I will have ten !" the gypsy cries : —
The fearful, trembling girl complies.
But what was her dismay, to find
That Lubin was the gypsy bold,
The cunning, fortune-telling hind
Who had the artful story told—
Who thus was cured of jealous pain,—
And got his ten pounos back again !
Thus fortune pays the lover bold !
But, gentle maids, should fate
Have any secret yet untold,—
Remember simple Kate !
POOR MARGUERITE.
Swift o'er the wild and dreary waste
A nut-brown girl was seen to haste ;
Wide waving was her unbound hair,
And sun-scorch'd was her bosom bare ;
For summer's noon had shed its beams
While she lay wrapp'd in feverish dreams ;
While, on the wither'd hedge-row's side,
By turns she slept, by turns she cried,
" Ah ! where lies hid the balsam sweet,
To heal the wounds of Marguerite ?**
Dark was her large and sunken eye,
Which wildly gazed upon the sky ;
And swiftly down her freckled face
The chilling dews began to pace ;
Her garments were by briars torn,
And on them hung full many a thorn ;
A thistle crown she muttering twined,
Now darted on,— now look'd behind—
And here and there her arm was seen
Bleeding the tatter'd folds between,
Yet on her breast she oft display'd
A faded branch, that breast to shade :
For though her senses were astray,
She felt the burning beams of day ;
She felt the wintry blast of night,
And smiled to see the morning light ;
For then she cried, " I soon shall meet
The plighted love of Marguerite."
Across the waste of printless snow
All day the nut-brown girl would go ;
And when the winter moon had shed
Its pale beams on the mountain's head,
She on a broom y pillow lay,
Singing the lonely hours away ;
While the cold-breath of dawn-light flew
Across the fields of glittering dew :—
Swift o'er the frozen lake she past,
Unmindful of the driving blast,
And then she cried, " the air is sweet-
It fans the breast of Marguerite."
The weedy lane she loved to tread
When stars their twinkling lustre shed ;
While from the lone and silent cot
The watchful cur assail'd her not,
Though at tire beggar he would fly,
And fright the traveller passing by:
But she, so kind and gentle seem'd,
Such sorrow in her dark eyes beam'd,
That savage fierceness could not greet
With less than love,— poor Marguerite !
Oft by the splashy brook she stood,
And sung her song to the waving wood ;
The waving wood, in murmurs low,
Fill'd up the pause of weary wo j
Oft to the forest tripp'd along,
And inly humm'd her frantic song;
Oft danced' mid shadows evening spread
Along the whispering willow- bed.
A nd wild Was her groan,
When she climb'd, alone,
The rough rock's side,
While the foaming tide
Dash'd rudely against the sandy shore,
And lightning flash 'd amid the thunders
roar.
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THE CONFESSOH.
And many a time she chased the fly,
And mock'd the beetle humming by ;
And then, with loud fantastic tone,
She sang her wild strain, sad— alone.
And if a stranger wander *d near,
Or paused the frantic song to hear,
The burthen she would soft repeat,
" Who comes to soothe poor Marguerite?"
And why did she with sun-burnt breast,
So wander, and so-scorn to rest ?
Why did the nut-brown maiden go
O'er burning plains and wastes of snow ?
What bade her feverish bosom sigh,
And dimm'd her large and hazel eye ?
What taught her o'er the hills to stray,
Fearless by night, and wild by day ?
What stole the of slumber sweet,

From the scorch'd brain of Marguerite !"
Soon shalt thou know ; for see how lorn
She climbs the steep of shaggy thorn—
Now on the jutting cliff she stands,
And clasps her cold and trembling hands ;—
And now aloud she chants her strain,
While fiercely roars the troublous main.
Now the white breakers curling show
The dread abyss that yawns below,
And still she sighs, " the sound is sweet,
It seems to say, poor Marguerite !'
" Here will I build a rocky shed,
And here I'll make my sea- weed bed ;
Here gather, with unwearied hands,
The orient shells that deck the sands.
And here will I skim o'er the billows, so high,
And laugh at the moon and the dark frown-
ing sky ; [main,
And the sea-birds, that hover across the wide
And sweep with their pinions the white
hounding plain ;
And the shivering sail shall the fierce tempest
meet, [rite !
Like the storm in the bosom of poor Marguc-
" The setting sun, with golden ray,
Shall warm my breast, and make me gay.
The clamours of the roaring sea
My midnight serenade shall be !
The cliff, that like a tyrant stands
Exulting o'er the wave-lash'd sands,
With its weedy crown, and its flinty crest,
Shall, on its hard bosom, rock me to rest ;
And 111 watch for the eagle's unfledg'd brood,
And I'll scatter their nest, and I'll drink their
blood;
And under the crag I will kneel and pray,
And silver my robe with the moony ray :
And who shall scorn the lone retreat
Which Heaven has mark'd for Marguerite !
199
Here did the exiled Henry stray,
Forced from his native land away ;
Here, here upon a foreign shore,
His parents, lost, awhile deplore ;
Here find, that pity's holy tear
Could not an alien wanderer cheer :
And now, in fancy, he would view,
Shouting aloud, the rabble crew—
The rabble crew, whose impious hands
Tore asunder nature's bands !
I see him still,— he waves me on !
And now to the dark abyss he's gone,—
He calls— I hear his voice so sweet,—
It seems to say— poor Marguerite 1"
Thus wild she sung ! when on the sand
She saw her long-lost Henry stand :
Pale was his cheek, and on his breast
His icy hand, he, silent, prest ;
And now the twilight shadows spread
Around the tall cliff's weedy head :
Far o'er the main the moon shone bright,
She mark'd the quivering stream of lighW
It danced upon the murmuring wave,
It danced upon her Henry's grave !
It mark'd his visage, deathly pale,—
His white shroud floating in the gale ;
His speaking eyes, his smile so sweet,
That won the love— of Marguerite !
And now he beckon'd her along
The curling moonlight waves among ;
No footsteps mark'd the slanting sand
Where she had seen her Henry stand !
She saw him o'er the billows go-
She heard the rising breezes blow ;
She shriek'd aloud ! The echoing steep
Frown'd darkness on the troubled deep ;
The moon in cloudy veil was seen,
And louder howl'd the night blast keen !
And when the morn in splendour dress'd,
Blush'd radiance on the eagle's nest,
That radiant blush was doom'd to greetr-
The lifeless form— of Marguerite !
THE CONFESSOR.
A SANCTIFIED TALE.
When superstition ruled the land,
And priestcraft shackled reason,
At Godstow dwelt a goodly band,
Grey monks they were, and but to say
They were not always given to pray,
Would have been construed treason.
Yet some did scoff, and some believed
That sinners were themselves deceived ;
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200
MRS. ROBINSON'S FOEM9.
And taking monks for more than men,
They proved themselves, nine out of ten,
Mere dupes of these old fathers hoary ;
But read— and mark the story.
Near, in a little farm, there lived
A buxom dame of twenty-three ;
And by the neighbours 'twas believed
A very saint was she !
Yet, every week, for some transgression,
She went to sigh devout confession.
For every trifle seem'd to make
Her self-reproving conscience ache ;
And conscience, waken'd, 'tis well known,
Will never let the soul alone. '
At Godstow, 'mid the holy band,
Old father Peter held command.
And lusty was the pious man,
As any of his crafty clan ;
And rosy was his cheek, and sly
The wanderings of his keen grey eye ;
Yet all the farmers' wives confess'd
The wondrous power this monk possess'd ;
Power to rub out the score of sin,
Which Satan chalk'd upon his tally ;
To give fresh license to begin,—
And for new scenes of frolic rally
For abstinence was not his way-
He loved to live — as well as pray ;
To prove his gratitude to heaven
By taking freely all its favours,—
And keeping his account still even,
Still mark'd his best endeavours :
That is to say, be took pure ore
For benedictions,— and was known,
While reason oped her golden store,—
Not to unlock his own.—
And often to his cell went he
With the gay dame of twenty- three :
His cell was sacred, and the fair
Well knew, that none could enter there,
Who (such was Peter's sage decree)
To Paradise ne'er bought a key.
It happen'd that this farmer's wife
(Call Mistress Twyford — alias Bridget,)
Led her poor spouse a weary life-
Keeping him in an endless fidget !
Yet every week she sought the cell
Where holy father Peter stay'd,
And there did every secret tell, —
And there, at sun-rise, knelt and pray'd.
For near there lived a civil friend,
Tli an farmer Twyford somewhat stouter,
And he would oft his counsel lend,
And pass the wintry hours away
In harmless play ;
But Mistress Bridget was so chaste,
So much with pious manners graced,
That none could doubt her !
_W*i
One night, or rather morn, 'tis said,
The wily neighbour chose to roam,
And (farmer Twyford far from home)
He thought he might supply his place ;
And, void of every spark of grace,
Upon his pillow rest his head.
The night was cold, and father Peter
Sent his young neighbour to entreat her,
That she would make confession free-
To him,—- her saintly deputy.
Now, so it happen'd, to annoy
The merry pair, a little boy,
The only son of lovely Bridget,
And, like bis daddy, given to fidget,
Enquired who this same neighbour was
That took the place his father left—
A most unworthy, shameless theft,—
A sacrilege on marriage laws !
The dame was somewhat disconcerted ;
For, all that she could say or do,
The boy his question would renew,
Nor from his purpose be diverted.
At length, the matter to decide,
" 'Tis father Peter," she replied;
" He's come to pray." The child gave o'er,
When a loud thumping at the door
Proclaim' d the husband coming.' Lo !
Where could the wily neighbour go ?
Where hide his recreant, guilty head—
But underneath the farmer's bed ? —
Now master Twyford kiss'd his child ;
And straight the cunning urchin smiled :
" Hush, father ! hush ! 'tis break of day—
And father Peter's come to pray !
You must not speak," the infant cries—
"' For underneath the bed he lies."
Now Mistress Twyford shriek'd and fainted ;
And the sly neighbour found, too late,
The farmer than his wife less sainted ;
For with his cudgel he repaid
The kindness of his faithless mate,
And fiercely on his blows he laid,
'Till her young lover, vanquished swore
He'd play the confessor no more !
Though fraud is ever sure to find
Its scorpion in the guilty mind :
Yet, pious fraud, the devil's treasure,
Is always paid in tenfold measure.
EDMUND'S WEDDING.
By the side of the brook, where the willow is
waving, [tcay !
Why sits the wan youth, in his wedding-suit
Now sighing so deeply, now franticly raving,
Beneath the pale light of the moon's sickly
ray?
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BDMUMD'S
Now he starts, all aghast, and wfth horror's
wild gesture, [vesture !
Cries, " Agnes is coming, I know her white
See ! see ! how she beckons me on to the willow,
Where, on the cold turf, she hat made our rude
pillow!
" Sweet girl ! yes I know thee ! thy cheek's liv-
ing roses
Are changed and grown pale with the tench
of despair;
And thy bosom no longer the lily discloses—
For thorns, my poor Agnes, are now planted
there !
Thy blue, starry eyes are all dimm'd by dark
sorrow; [borrow;
No more from thy lip can the flower fragrance
for cold does it seem, like the pale light of
morning, [scorning !
And thou smil'st, as in sadness, thy fond lover
" From the red scene of slaughter thy Edmund
returning, [flowers ;
Has dress'd himself gaily with May-blooming
His bosom, dear Agnes! still faitkftiUy burning,
While, madly impatient, Ms eyes beam in
showers!
O ! many a time have I thought of thy beauty—
When cannons, loud roaring, taught valour its
duty;
And many a time have I sigh'd to behold thee-<~
When the sulphur of war in its cloudy mist
roll'd me I
" At the still hour of morn, when the camp was
reposing,
I wander'd alone on the wide dewy plain :
And when the gold curtains of evening were
closing, [main*
I watch 'd the long shadows steal ever the
Across the wild ocean, half frantic, they bore
me,
Unheeding my groans, from thee, Agnes, they
tore me;
But, though my poor heart might have bled in
the battle,
Thy name should have echoed amidst the loud
rattle!
" When I gazed on the field of the dead and the
dying—
Agnes ! my fancy still wander'd to thee!
When around my brave comrades in anguish
were lying,
1 long'd on the death bed of valour to be.
For, severed from thee, my sweet girl, the loud
thunder,
Which tore the soft fetters of fondness asunder,
Had only one kindness, in mercy, to show me—
To bid me die bravely, that thou, love, may'st
know me V 9
WEDDING. goi
His arms now are folded, he bows as in sorrow,
His tears trickle fast down his wedding-suit
gay : [morrow,
" My Agnes will bless me," he murmurs, " to
As fresh as the breezes that welcome the day !"
Poor youth! know thy Agnes, so lovely and
Wooming, [tombing !
Stern death has embraced, all her beauties en-
And, pale as her shroud, in the grave she reposes,
Her bosom of snow aH besprinkled with roses !
Her cottage is now in the dark dell decaying,
And shatter'd the casements, and closed is the
door,
And the nettle now waves where the wild kid
is playing,
And the neat little garden with weeds is
grown o'er ! (shrieking,
The owl builds its nest in the thatch, and there,
(A place all deserted and lonely bespeaking)
Salutes the night traveller, wandering near is,
And makes his faint heart sicken sadly to hear it.
Then, youth, for thy habit, henceforth thou
shouldst borrow [dear :
The raven's dark colour, and mourn for thy
Thy Agnes for thee would have cherish'd her
sorrow, [tear :
And drest her pale cheek with a lingering
For, soon as thy steps to the battle departed,
She droop'd, and, poor maiden! she died broken
hearted;
And the turf that is bound with fresh garlands
of roses,
Is now the cold bed where her sorrow reposes !
The gay and the giddy may revel in pleasure,—
May think themselves happy their short sum-
mer-day ; [treasure,
May gaze, with fond transport, on fortune's rich
And, carelessly sporting,— drive sorrow away :
But the bosom, where feeling and truth are
united, fed—
From folly's bright tinsel will turn ufideltght-
And find, at the grave where thy Agnes is sleep-
ing, [weeping !
That the proudest of boars, is the lone hour of
The youth now approach'd the long branch of
the willow,
And stripping its leaves, on the turf threw
them round : [pillow,
" Here, here, my sweet Agnes ! I make my last
My bed of long slumber shaH be the cold
ground !
The sun, when it rises above thy low dwelling,
Shall gild the tall spire where my death-toll is
knelling;
And when the next twilight its soft tears Ss
shedding, [weddi ng ! "
At thy grave shall the villagers— witness our
Cc
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202
Now over the hills he beheld a group coming,
Their arms glitter'd bright, as the sun slowly
rose; [ming,
He heard them their purposes, far distant, hum-
And welcomed the moment that ended his
woes !— [him,
And now the fierce comrade, unfeeling, espies
He darts through the thicket, in hopes to sur-
prise him ;
But Edmund, of valour the dauntless defender,
Now smiles, while his corporal bids him— " Sur-
render!"
Soon, proved a deserter, stern justice prevailing,
He died ! and his spirit to Agnes ia fled :
The breeze on the mountain's tall summit now
sailing, [bed!
Fans lightly the dew-drops that spangle their
The villagers, thronging around, scatter roses,
The grey wing of evening the western sky closes ;
And night's sable pall, o'er the landscape ex-
tending,
Isthe mourning of Nature ! the solemn scene
ending!
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Would swim in tears of fondness, mix'd with
joy,
When he observed the opening harvest rich
Of promised intellect, which Henry's soul,
THE
ALIEN BOY.
'Twas on a mountain near the western main,
An alien dwelt. A solitary hut
Built on a jutting crag, o'erhung with weeds,
Mark'd the poor exile's home. Full ten long
years
The melancholy wretch had lived unseen
By all, save Henry, a loved little son,
The partner of his sorrows. On the day
When persecution, in the sainted guise
Of liberty, spread wide its venom'd power,
•The brave Saint Hubert fled his lordly home,
And, with his baby son, the mountain sought,
Resolved to cherish in his bleeding breast
The secret of his birth — Ah ! birth too high
For his now humbled state !— from infancy
He Uught him labour's task : he bade him cheer
' The dreary day of cold adversity
By patience and by toil. The summer morn
Shone on the pillow of his rushy bed ;
The noontide sultry hour he fearless pass'd
On the shagg'd eminence ; while the young kid
Skipp'd to the cadence of his minstrelsy.
At night young Henry trimm'd the faggot fire,
While oft Saint Hubert wove the ample net
To snare the finny victim. Oft they sang
And. talk'd, while sullenly the waves would
sound,
Dashing the sandy shore. Saint Hubert's eyes
Oft the bold youth, in question intricate,
Would seek to know the story of his birth ;
Oft ask, who bore him : and with curious skill
Enquire, why he, and only one beside,
Peopled the desert mountain? StHl his sire
Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure,
Varied the conversation. Still the mind
Of Henry ponder'd ; for, in their lone hut,
A daily journal would Saint Hubert make
Of his long banishment : and sometimes speak
Of friends forsaken, kindred massacred ;
Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes
For ever faded,— lost !
One winter time,
'Twas on the eve of Christmas, the shrill blast
Swept o'er the stormy main j the boiling foam
Rose to an altitude so fierce and strong,
That their low hovel totter'd. Oft they stole
To the rock's margin, and with fearful eyes
Mark'd the vex'd deep, as the slow rising moon
Gleam'd on the world of waters. 'Twas a
scene
Would make a stoic shudder ! For, amid
The wavy mountains, they beheld, alone,
A little boat, now scarcely visible ;
And now not seen at all ; or, like a buoy,
Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore !
Now the full moon in crimson lustre shone
Upon the outstretch 'd ocean. The black clouds
Flew swiftly on, the wild blast following,
And, as they flew, dimming the angry main
With shadows horrible ! Still the small boat
Struggled amid the waves, a sombre speck
Upon the wide domain of howling death !
Saint Hubert sigh'd ! while Henry's speaking
eye
Alternately the stormy scene survey'd,
And his low hovel's safety. So pass'd on
The hour of midnight, — and, since first they
knew
The solitary scene, no midnight hour
E'er seem'd so long and weary.
While they stood,
Their hands fast link'd together, and their eyes
Fix'd on the troublous ocean, suddenly
The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore,
Left the small wreck ; and crawling on the side
Of the ruCe crag,— a human form was seen !
And now he climb'd the foam-wash'd precipice,
And now the slippery weeds gave way, while he
Descended to the sands. The moon rose high—
The wild blast paused, and the poor shipwreck'd
man [steep
Look'd round aghast, when on the frowning
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THE GRANNY OBEY.
203
He mark'd the lonely exiles. Now he call'd ;
But he was feeble, and his voice was lost
Amid the din of mingling sounds that rose
From the wild scene of clamour.
Down the steep
Saint Hubert hurried, boldly venturous,
Catching the slimy weeds from point to point,
And unappalTd by peril. At the foot
Of the rude rock, the fainting mariner
Seized on his outstretch'd arm, impatient, wild
With transport exquisite ! But ere they heard
The blest exchange of sounds articulate,
A furious billow, rolling on the steep,
Engulph'd them in oblivion !
On the rock
Young Henry stood, with palpitating heart,
And fear-struck, e'en to madness ! Now he call'd,
Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew ;
But, 'mid the elemental strife of sounds,
No human voice gave answer ! The clear moon
No longer quiver' d on the curling main,
But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light,
Enough to show all things that moved around,
Dreadful, but indistinctly ! The black weeds
Waved, as the night-blast swept them; and
along
The rocky shore, the breakers sounding low,
Seem'd like the whispering of a million souls
Beneath the green-deep mourning.
Four long hours
The lorn boy listen' d ! four long tedious hours
Pass'd wearily away, when, in the east,
TTie grey beam coldly glimmer'd. All alone
Young Henry stood aghast, his eye wide fix'd;
While his dark locks, uplifted by the storm,
Uncover' d, met its fury. On his cheek
Despair sat terrible ! for, 'mid the woes
Of poverty and toil, he had not known,
TUl then, the horror-giving cheerless hour
Of total solitude!
He spoke— he groan'd,
But no responsive voice, no kindred tone,
Broke the dread pause : for now the storm had
ceased,
And the bright sun-beams glitter'd on the breast
Of the greentylacid ocean. To his hut
The lorn boy hasten'd ; there the rushy couch,
The pillow still indented, met his gaze,
And fix'd his eye in madness.— From that hour
A maniac wild the alien boy has been ;
His garb with sea-weeds fringed, and his wan
cheek,
The tablet of his mind, disorder'd, changed,
Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance,
A sea-beat wanderer from the outstretch'd main
Views the lone exile, and with generous zeal
Hastes to the sandy beach, he suddenly
Darts 'mid the cavern'd cliffs, and leaves pursuit
To track him, where no footsteps but his own
Have e'er been known to venture ! Yet he Jives
A melancholy proof, that man may bear
All the rude storms of fate, and still suspire
By the wide world forgotten !
THE GRANNY GREY.
Dame Dowson, was a granny grey,
Who, three-score years and ten,
Had pass'd her busy hours away,
In talking of the men !
They were her theme, at home, abroad,
At wake, and by the winter fire ;
Whether it froze, or blew, or thaw'd,
In sunshine or in shade, her ire
Was never calm'd ; for still she made
Scandal her pleasure— and her trade !
A grand-daughter Dame Dowson had—
As fair, as fair could be !
Lovely enough to make men mad ;
For on her cheek's soft downy rose
Love seem'd in dimples to repose ;
Her clear blue eyes look'd mildly bright,
Like ether drops of liquid light,
Or sapphire gems,— which Venus bore,
When, for the silver-sanded shore,
She left her native sea !
Annetta was the damsel's name ;
A pretty, soft, romantic sound,
Such as a lover's heart may wound,
And set his fancy in a flame j
For had the maid been christen' d Joan,
Or, Deborah, or Hester,—
The little god had coldly prest her,
Or let her quite alone
For magic is the silver sound—
Which, often, in a name is fow\d !
Annetta was beloved ; and she
To William gave her vows ;
For William was as brave a youth
As ever claim'd the meed of truth ;
And, to reward such constancy,
Nature that meed allows.
But old Dame Dowson could not bear
A youth so brave— a maid so far.
The Granny Grey, with maxims grave,
Oft to Annetta lessons gave :
And still the burthen of the tale
Was, " Keep the wicked men away,
For should their wily arts prevail,
You'll surely rue the day !"
And credit was to granny due,
The truth, she by experience, knew ^
fP-
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MRS. ROBUISOirS POEMS.
Annette blnak'd, and promised die
Obedient to her will would be*
But love, with cunning all hia own,
Would never let the maid alone :
And though she dared not see her lover,
Lest granny should the deed discover,
She, for a woman's weapon still,
From Cupid's pinion pluck* d a quill ;
And, with it, proved that human art
Cannot confine the female heart.
At length, an assignation she
With William slily made ;
It was beneath an old oak tree,
Whose widely spreading shade
The moon's soft beams contrived to break
For many a village lover's sake.
But envy has a lynx's eye ;
And granny Dowson cautious went
Before, to spoil their merriment,
Thinking no creature nigh.
Young William came ; but at the tree
The watchful grandam found !
Straight to the village hasten'd he,
And summoning his neighbours round,
The hedgerow's tangled boughs among,
Conceal'd the listening wondering throng*
He told them* that for many a. night
An old grey owl was heard ;
A fierce, ill-omen'd, crabbed bird—
Who fill'd the village with affright.
He swore this bird was large and keen,,
With claws of fire* and eye-balls green;
That nothing rested where she came % r
That many pranks the monster play'd,
And many a timid trembling, maid
She brought to shame.
For negligence that was her own :
Turning the milk to water clear,
And spilling, from the cask small-beer - T
Pinching, like fairies, harmless lasses,
And shewing imps in looking-glasses ;
Or, with heart-piercing groan,
Along the church-yard path swift gliding,
Or, on a broomstick, witeh-like, riding.
All listen' d trembling ; for the tale
Made cheeks of ochre chalky pale ;
The young a valiant doubt pretended ;
The old believed, and all attended.
Now to Dame Dowson he repairs,
And in his arms enfolds the granny .
Kneels at her feet, and fondly swears
He will be true as any !
Caresses her with well-feign'd bliss,
And, fearfully, implores a kiss ;—
On the green turf distracted lying,
He wastes his ardent breath in sighing.
The dame was silent ; for the lover
Would, when she spoke,
She foar'd, discover
Her envious joke :
And she was too much cbexm'd to be
In haste,— to end the comedy \
Now William, weary of suck wooing,
Began, with all his might, hallooing :—
When suddenly from every bush
The eager throngs impatient rash ;
With shouting, and with bowterowgleei
Dame Dowson they pursue*
And from the broad oak's canopy,
O'er moonlight fields of sparkling dew,
They bear in triumph the eld dame,
Bawling, with loud huzzas, her name :
" A witch, a witch ! " the people cry
" A witch,!" the echoing hills reply :
TiU to her home the granny eame>
Where, to confirm the tale of shame,
Each rising day they went, in throngs,
With ribald jests, and sportive songs :
Till granny of her spleen repented;
And to young William's ardent pray'r,
To take for lifts Annette fiiir,—
At last— consented.
And should this tele mil in the way
Of lovers cross' d, or grannies grey-
Let them confess, 'tie made to prove—
The wisest heads— too weak for love
GOLFRE,
A GOTHIC SWISS TALE,
nr five rARTs.
Where freezing wastes of dazzling snow
O'er Leman's lake rose towering,
The baron Golfre's castle strong
Was seen, tbe silvery peaks among,
With ramparts darkly lowering !—
Tall battlements of flint uprose,
Long shadowing down the valley,
A grove of sombre pine, antique,
Amid the white expanse would break,
In many a gloomy alley.
A strong portcullis entrance show'd,
With ivy brown hung over ;
And stagnate the green moat was found,
Whene'er the traveller wander 'd round,
Or moon-enamour'd lover.
Within the spacious courts were seen
A thousand gothie fancies ;
Of banners, trophies, armour bright,
Of shields thick batter'd in the fight,
And interwoven lances.
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The Baron Gctfre long had been
To solitude devoted;
And oft in prayer weald pass the night,
Till day's vermilion stream of light
Along the blue hai floatedV
And yet his prayer was little mavk'd
With pure and calnt devotion ;
For oft, upon the pavement bare,
He'd dash his limbs, and vend Ms hair,
With terrible amotion J
And sometimes- he, at midnight how,
Would howl, like wolves wide-prowling ;
And pale the lamps would glimmer round—
And deep the self-moved bell would sound,
A knell prophetic tolling I
CKXLFKEL
sera
For, in the hall, three 1
That quiver' d dim j-
A bell-rope hung, that from the tower
Three knells would toll at midnight's hour,
Starting the soul to hear them S
And oft a dreadful crash was heard,
Shaking the castle's chambers !
And suddenly the lights would turn
To pale grey, and dimly burn,
Like faint and. dying embers.
Beneath the steep a maiden dwelt,
The dove-eyed Zorietto;
A damsel bless'd with every grace—
And springing from as old a race.
As Lady of Loretto 1
Her dwelling was a goatherd's poor;
Yet she his heart delighted j
Their little hovel open stood,
Beside a lonesome frowning- wood,.
To travellers— benighted.
Yet oft, at midnight, when the moon
Its dappled course was steering.
The castle bell would break their sleep,
And Zorietto slow would creep-
To bar the wickeW-feariag !
What did she fear? Oh, dreadful thought J
The moon's wan lustre str earning j
The dim grey lamps, the crashing sound,
The lonely bittern— shrieking round
The roof,— with pale light gleaming.
And often, when the wintry wind '
Loud whistled o'er their dwelling,
They sat beside their faggot fire,
While Zorietto'8 aged sire
A dismal tale was telling.
He told a long and dismal tale,
How a fair lady perished ;
How her sweet baby, dodm'd to be
The partner of her deattnyv
Was by a peasant oheriah'd 1 •
He told a long and dismal tala> i.
How, from a flinty tower,
A lady wailing sad was Seen,
The lofty grated bars between,
At dawnlight's purple hour I
He told a tale of hitter wo,
His heart with pity swelling,
How the fair lady pined ah* died,
And how her ghost, at Christmas-tide-*
Would wander— near her dwelling*
He told her, how a lowly dama
The lady, lorn, befriended—
Who changed her own dear baby, dead,
And took the lady's in Its stead-*
• And then—" Forgive her, Heaven 1" he said ;
And so- his story ended*
PART SECOND.
As on the rushy floor she sat,
Her hand her pale cheek pressing,
Oft on the goatherd's face her e^es
Would fix intent, her mute surprise
In frequent starts confessing. ''
Then slowly would she turn her head,
And watch the narrow wicket
And shudder, while the wintry Wast, -
In shrilly cadence, swiftly pass'd
Along the neighbouring thicket.
One night, it was in winter time,
The castle bell was tolling ;
The air was still, the moon was seen '
Sporting her starry train between,
The thm clouds round her rolling.
And now she watchM the wasflng lamp,
Her trmfd bosom pantifigV" * '
And now the crickets firfntly smg j
And now she hears the raven's wing
S weeping their low roof, slanting.
And, as- the wicket latch she closed;
A groan was heard !— she trembled!
And now a clashing, steely sound,
In quick vibrations, echoed round,
Like murderous swords assembled ! '
I
She started back ; she lookM around,—
The goatherd swain was sleeping;
A stagnate paleness mark'd her cheek,
She would have call'd, but could not speak,
While through the lattice peeping.
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206
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
And O ! how dimly shone the moon
Upon the snowy mountain !
And fiercely did the wild blast blow,
And now her tears began to flow,
Fast as a falling fountain.
And now she heard the castle bell
Again toll sad and slowly ;
She knelt and sigh'd : the lamp burnt pale-
She thought upon the dismal tale—
And pray'd with fervour holy !
And now her little string of beads
She kisr'd — and cross'd her breast ;
It was a simple rosary,
Made of the mountain holly-tree,
By sainted fathers blest !
And now the wicket open flew,
As though a whirlwind fell'd it ;
And now a ghastly figure stood
Before the maiden— while her blood
Congeal' d, as she beheld it ; '
His face was pale, his eyes were wild,
His beard was dark ; and near him
A stream of light was seen to glide,
Marking a poniard, crimson-dyed ;
The bravest soul might fear him !
His forehead was all gash'd and gored,
His vest was black and flowing,
His strong hand grasped a dagger keen ;
And wild and frantic was his mien,
Dread signs of terror showing.
" O fly me not !" the baron cried,
" In Heaven's name, do not fear me !"
Just as he spoke the bell thrice tolTd—
Three paly lamps they now behold—
While a faint voice, cried—" Hear me!"
And now, upon the threshold low,
The wounded Golfre, kneeling,
Again to Heaven address'd his prayer ;
The waning moon, with livid glare,
Was down the dark sky stealing.
They led him in, they bath'd his wounds,
Tears to the red stream adding :
The haughty Golfre gazed, admired !
The peasant girl his fancy fired,
And set his senses madding !
He prest her hand ; she turn'd away,
Her blushes deeper glowing,
Her cheek still spangled o'er with tears :
So the wild rose more fresh appears
When the soft dews are flowing !
Again the* baron fondly gazed ;
Poor Zorietto trembled ;
And Golfre watch'd her throbbing breast,
Which seem'd with weighty woes oppress'd,
And softest love dissembled.
The goatherd fourscore years had seen,
And he was sick and needy ;
The baron wore a sword of gold,
Which poverty might well behold
With eyes wide stretch' d and greedy!
The dawn arose ! the yellow light
Around the Alps spread cheering 1 .
The baron kiss'd the goatherd's child—
" Farewell !" she cried, and blushing smiled—
No future peril fearing.
Now Golfre homeward bent his way,
His breast with passion burning :
The chapel bell was rung for prayer,
And all— save Golfre, prostrate there-
Thank* d Heaven for his returning !
PART THIRD.
Three times the orient ray was seen
Above the east cliff mounting,
When Golfre sought the cottage grace,
To share the honours of bis race,
With treasures beyond counting !
Th' evening sun was burning red,
The twilight veil spread slowly,
While Zorietto, near the wood
Where long a little cross had stood,
Was singing vespers holy.
And now she kiss'd her holly-beads,
And now she cross'd her breast ;
The night-dew fell from every tree-
It fell upon her rosary,
Like tears of heaven twice bless'd ?
She knelt upon the brown moss cold,
She knelt with eyes mild beaming f
The day had closed, she heard a sigh/
She mark'd the clear and frosty sky
With starry lustre gleaming.
She rose ; she heard the draw-bridge chains
Loud clanking down the valley ;
She mark'd the yellow torches shine
Between the antique groves of pine,
Brigbt'ning each gloomy alley
And now the breeze began to blow,
Soft-stealing up the mountain ;
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It seem'd at first a dulcet sound-
Like mingled waters, wandering round,
Slow falling from a fountain.
And now, in wilder tone it rose,
The white peaks sweeping shrilly:
It play'd amidst her golden hair,
It kiss'd her bosom cold and fair,
And sweet as vale-born lily !
She heard the hollow tread of feet
Thridding the piny cluster ;
The torches flamed before the wind ;
A nd many a spark was left behind,
To mock the glowworm's lustre.
She saw them guard the cottage door,
Her heart beat high with wonder !
She heard the fierce and northern blast,
As o'er the topmost point it pass'd,
Like peals of bursting thunder !
And now she hied her swift along,
And reach'd the guarded wicket ; <
But O ! what terror fill'd her soul,
When thrice she heard the deep bell toll,
Above the gloomy thicket.
Now fierce the baron darted forth,
His trembling victim seizing;
She felt her blood in every vein
Move with a sense of dead'ning pain,
As though her heart were freezing.
OOLFRE. 207
The baron drew his poniard forth—
The maiden sunk upon the earth,
And — " Save me, Heaven!" she utter'd.
" Yes, Heaven will save thee," Golfre said,
" Save thee to be my bride !"
But while he spoke, a beam of light
Shone on her bosom, deathly white,
Then onward seem'd to glide.
And now the goatherd, on his knees,
With frantic accent cried,
" O ! God forbid ! that I should see
The beauteous Zorietto be
The baron Golfre's bride !
" Poor lady ! she did shrink and fall,
As leaves fall in September !
Then be not baron Golfre's bride—
Alack ! in yon black tower she died—
Full well I do remember !
" Oft to the lattice grate 1 stole,
To hear her sweetly singing ;
And oft, whole nights, beside the moat,
I listen'd to the dying note-
Till matin's bell was ringing.
" And when she died ! poor lady dear !
A sack of gold she gave,
That masses every Christmas day
Twelve bare-foot monks should sing, or say,
Slow moving round her grave.
" This night," said he, " yon castle towers
Shall echo to their centre !
For, by the holy cross, I swear,"—*
And straight a cross of ruby glare
Did through the wicket enter !
And now a snowy hand was seen
Slow moving round the chamber !
A clasp of pearl it seem'd to bear—
A clasp of pearl most rich and rare !
Fix'd to a zone of amber.
And now the lonely hovel shook,
The wicket open flying ;
And by the croaking raven flew,
And, whistling shrill, the night-blast blew,
Like shrieks that mark the dying !
But suddenly the tuirult ceased—
And silence, still more fearful,
Around her little chamber spread,
Such horrors as attend the dead,
Where no sun glitters cheerful !
" Now, Jesu, hear me!" Golfre cried ;
" Hear me !" a faint voice mutter'd !
« That, at the holy Virgin's shrine,
Three lamps should burn for ever —
That every month the bell should toll,
For prayers to save her husband's soul—
I shall forget it never !"
While thus he spoke, the baron's eye
Look'd inward on his soul :
For he the masses ne'er had said-
No lamps their quivering* light had shed,
No bell been taught to toll !
And yet the bell did toll, self-moved ;
And sickly lamps were gleaming ;
And oft their faintly wandering light
Illumed the chapel aisles at night,
Till morn's broad eye was beaming.
PART FOURTH.
The maid refused the baron's suit,
For well she loved another ;
The angry Golfre's vengeful rage
Nor pride nor reason could assuage,
Nor pity prompt to smother.
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208
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
His sword Was gone ; the goatherd swain
Seem'd guilty, toast recalling :
The heron now his life demands,
Where the tall gibbet skirts the lands,
Wife blackening bones appalling 1
Low at Che baron's feet, in tears,
Fair .Zorietto kneeling,
The goatherd's life required ;— -bat found
That pride can give the deepest wound
Without the pang of feeling.
That power can mock the sufferer's woes,
And triumph e'er the sighing ;
Can scorn the noblest mind oppress'd,
Can fill with thorns the feeling breast,
Soft Juty's tear -denying.
" Take me*" she cried, " but spare his
Let me his ransom tender;
I will the fatal deed atone,
For crimes that never were my own,
My breaking heart surrender."
The marriage day was fixed, the towers
With banners rick were mounted ;
His heart beat high against Ins side,
While Golfre, waiting for his bride,
The weary minutes counted.
The snow fell fast, with mingling hail,
The dawn was late and lowering ;
Poor Zorietta rose aghast i
Unmindful of the northern blast,
And prowling wolves devouring.
Swift to the wood of pines she flew,
Love- made the assignation ;
For there the sovereign of her soul
Watch'd the blue mists of morning roll
Around her habitation.
The baron, by a spy appriz'd,
Was there before his bride ;
He seized the youth, and madly etrew'd
The white cliff with his streaming blood,
Then hurl'd him down its side.
And now, twma said, a hungry wolf
Had made the youth his prey:
His heart lay frozen on tike snow,
And here and there a purple glow
Speckled the pathless way.
The marriage day at length arrived,
The priest bestow'd his blessing :
A clasp of orient pearl fast bound
A zone of amber circling round,
Her slender waist compressing.
On Zorietto's snowy breast
A ruby cross was heaving :
So the pale snow-drop faintly glows,
When shelter'd by the damask rose,
Their beauties interweaving
And now the holy vow began
Upon her lips to falter !
And now all deathly wan she grew,
And now three lamps of livid hue
Pass'd slowly round the altar.
And now she saw the clasp pearl

A ruby lustre taking;
And thrice she heard the castle bell
Ring out a loud funereal knell,
The antique turrets shaking
O ! then how pale the baron grew,
His eyes wide staring fearful !
While o'er the virgin's image fair
A sable veil was borne on air,
Shading her dim eyes tearful.
And on her breast a clasp of pearl
Was stahi'd with blood fast flowing :
And round her lovely waist she wore
An amber zone ; a cross she bore
Of rubies, richly glowing.
The bride her dove-like eyes to heaven
Raised, tailing Christ to save her !
The cross now danced upon her breast ;
The shuddering priest his fears confe&s'd,
And benedictions gave her.
Upon the pavement sunk the bride,
Cold as a corpse, and fainting ;
The pearly clasp, self-bursting, sbew'tf
Her beating side, where crimson glow'd
Three spots of Nature's painting.
Three crimson spot* of deepest hue !
The baron gazed with wonder r
For on his buried lady's side
Just three such drops had Nature dyed,
An equal space asunder.
And now remembrance brought to view,
(For Heaven the truth discloses,)
The baby, who had early died,
Bore, tinted on its little side,
Three spots— as red as roses !
Now, ere the wedding-day had past,
Stern Golfre and his bride
Walk'd forth to taste the evening breeze,
Soft sighing mid the sombre trees,
That drest the mountain's side.
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And now, beneath the grove of pine,
Two lovely forms were gliding ;
A lady, with a beauteous face !
A youth, with stern, but manly grace,
Smiled, — as in scorn deriding.
GOLFRE. £00
Two angel's wings Wert spreading wide,
The battlements, from side to side,
And lofty roof adorning.
Close by the wandering bride they pass'd,
The red sun sinking slowly :
And to the little cross they hied—
And there she saw them, side by side,
Kneeling with fervour holy.
The little cross was golden tinged,
The western radiance stealing ;
And now it bore a purple hue,
And now all black and dim it grew,
And still she saw them kneeling.
White were their robes as fleecy snow,
Their faces pale, yet cheerful :
Their golden hair, like waves of light,
Shone lustrous mid the glooms of night ;
Their starry eyes were tearful.
And now they look'd to Heaven, and smiled,
Three paly lamps descended !
And now their shoulders seem'd to bear
Expanding pinions broad and fair,
And now they waved in viewless air !
And so the vision ended.
PART FIFTH.
Now, suddenly, a storm arose,
The thunder roar'd tremendous !
The lightning flash'd, the howling blast,
Fierce, strong, and desolating, pass'd
The altitudes stupendous !
Rent by the wind, a fragment huge
From the steep summit bounded :
That summit, where the peasant's breast
Found, 'mid the snow, a grave of rest,
By Golire's poniard wounded.
Loud shrieks across the mountain wild,
Fill'd up the pause of thunder :
The groves of pine the lightning pass'd,
And swift the desolating blast
Scatter' d them wide asunder.
The castle turrets seem'd to blaze,
The lightning round them flashing ;
The draw-bridge now was all on fire,
The moat foam'd high with furious ire,
Against the black walls dashing.
The prison tower was silver white,
And radiant as the morning ;
And now the bride was sore afraid,
She sigh'd, and cross'd her breast;
She kiss'd her simple rosary,
Made of the mountain holly-tree,
By sainted fathers blest*
She kiss'd it once, she kiss'd it twice ;
It seem'd to freeze her breast ;
The cold showers fell from every tree,
They fell upon her rosary,
Like Nature's tears, " twice Meet !"
*' What do ye fear?" the baron cried-*
For Zorietto trembled.—
" A wolf," she sigh'd with whisper low,
" Hark how the angry whirlwinds blow,
Like demons dark assembled !
" That wolf which did myiover slay !
The baron wildly started.
" That wolf accursed!" she madly cried —
" Whose fangs by human gore were dyed,
Who dragg'd him down the mountain's side,
And left me — broken hearted J"
Now Golfre shook in every joint,
He grasp'd her arm, and mutter'd ;
Hell seem'd to yawn on every side \
" Hear me!" the frantic tyrant cried— "
" Hear me!" a faint voice utter' d.
«« I hear thee ! yes, I hear thee well!"
Cried Golfre, " I'll content thee :
I see thy vengeful eye-balls roll —
Thou com'st to claim my guilty soul—
The fiends— the fiends have sent thee !"
And now a goatherd-boy was heard,
Swift climbing up the mountain :
A kid was lost, the fearful hind
Had roved his truant care to find,
By woodland's side and fountain.
And now a murmuring throng advance 1,
And howlings echo'd round them :
Now Golfre tried the path to pace,
His feet seem'd rooted to the place,
As though & spell had bound them.
And now loud mingling voices cried—
" Pursue that wolf, pursue him !"
The guilty baron, conscience stung,
About his fainting daughter hung,
As to the ground she drew him.
" O ! shield me, holy Mary ! shield
A tortured wretch !" he mutter'd.
Dd
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210 MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
" A murderous wolf! O God ! I crave
A dark, unhallow'd, silent grave—" *
Aghast, the caitiff utter'd.
III.
" 'Twas I, beneath the goatherd's bed,
The golden sword did cover ;
'Twas I who tore the quivering wound,
Pluck'd forth the heart, and scatter'd round
The life-stream of thy lover."
And now he writh'd in every limb,
And big his heart was swelling ;
Fresh peals of thunder echo'd strong,
With famish'd wolves the peaks among
Their dismal chorus yelling !
" O Jesu, sa ve me !" Golfre shriek' d—
But Golfre shriek'd no more I
The rosy dawn's returning light'
Display'd his corse,— a dreadful sight,
Black, wither'd, smear'd with gore !
High on a gibbet, near the wood,
His mangled limbs were hung ;
Yet Zorietto oft was seen
Prostrate the chapel aisles between,
When holy mass was sung.
And there three lamps now dimly burn,—
Twelve monks their masses saying ;
And there the midnight bell doth toll,
For quiet to the murderer's soul-
While all around are praying.
For charity and pity kind,
To gentle souls are given ;
And mercy is the sainted power
Which beams through misery's darkest hour,
And lights the way— to heaven.
JASPER.
The night was long, 'twas winter time,
The moon shone pale and clearly ;
The woods were bare, the nipping air
Across the heath, as cold as death,
Blew shrilly and severely,
II.
And awful was the midnight scene I
The silent river flowing,
The dappled sky, the screech-owl's cry,
The blackening tower, the haunted bower,.
Where poisonous weeds were growing !
With footsteps quick, and feverish heart
One tatter* d garment wearing,
Poor Jasper, sad, alone, and mad,
Now chaunted wild, and now he smile 1,
With eyes wide fix'd and glaring.
IV.
His cbeek was wan, his lip was blue,
His head was bare and shaggy ;
. His limbs were torn by many a thorn ;
For he bad paced the pathless waste,
And climb'd the steep rock craggy.
V.
An iron window in the tower
Slow creek'd as it was swinging ;
A gibbet stood beside the wood,
The blast did blow it to and fro,
The rusty chains were ringing.
VI.
His voice was hollow as the tone
Of cavern'd winds, and mournful ;
No tears could flow, to calm his wo ;
Yet on his face sat manly grace,
And grief, sublimely scornful !
VII.
Twelve freezing nights poor Jasper's breast
Had braved the tempests yelling ;
For misery keen his lot had been
Since he had left, of sense bereft,
A tyrant father's dwelling.
VIII.
That father, who with lordly pride,
Saw him from Mary sever ; ■
Saw her fair cheek in silence speak,
Her eyes blue light, so heavenly bright,
Grow dim, and fade for ever !
IX.
" How hot yon sun begins to shine !"
The maniac cried loud laughing :
" I feel the pain that burns my brain ;
Thy sulpher beam bids ocean steam,
Where all the fiends are quaffing.
" Soft, soft the dew begins to rise,
I'll drink it while 'tis flowing ;
Down every tree the bright rills see,
Quick let me sip, they'll cool my lip,
For now my blood is glowing.
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JASPER.
211
XI.
XIX.
" Hark ! the she- wolf howliug by !
Poor Jasper smiles to hear thee ;
For he can hftle by the hedge-row's side,
'While storms shall sweep the mountain's steep;
Then, she- wolf, can he fear thee ?
XII.
*« Pale moon ! thou spectre of the sky I
I tee thy white shroud waving :
And now behold thy bosom cold —
Oh ! memory sad, it made me mad !
Then wherefore mock my raving?
XIII.
Yes ! on my Mary's bosom cold
Death laid his bony fingers.
Hark ! how the wave begins to lave
The rocky shore ! — I hear it roar—
The whirling pilot lingers !
XIV.
" Oh ! bear me, bear me o'er the main !
See the white sails are flying :
Yon glittering star shall be my car,
And by my side shall Mary glide,
Mild as the south wind sighing.
XV.
" My bare-foot way is mark'd with blood-
Well— what care I for sorrow ?
The sun shall rise to cheer the skies,
The wintry day shall pass away,
And summer smile to-morrow !
XVI.
* The frosted heath is wide and drear,
And rugged is my pillow ; ,
Soon shall I sleep beneath the deep— |
How calm to me that sleep will be, I
Rock'd by the bounding billow ! |
XVII. I
\
" The village clock strikes mournfully,
It is my death-bell tolling ;
But though yon cloud begins to shroud
The gliding moon, the day-stream soon
Shall down yon steep come rolling. I
i
XVIII. I
" Roll down yon steep, broad flood of light !
Drive hence that spectre ! Jasper j
Remembers now, her snowy brow—
Tis Mary ! see — she beckons me— \
O let me, let me clasp her ! I
" She fades away ! I feel her not,—
She's gone ! — 'tis dark and dreary :
The drizzling rain now chills my brain,
The bell, for me, tolls mournfully !
Come, death! for I am weary.
XX.
" I'll steal beneath yon haunted tower,
And wait the day-star's coming ;
The bat shall flee at sight of me,
The ivy'd wall shall be my pall —
My priest, the night-fly humming. .
XXI.
" Yon spectre's iron shroud I'll steal,
With frozen drops bespangled !
The night-shade too, besprent with dew,
With many a flower of healing power,
Shall cool my bare-feet mangled.
XXII.
" Is it the storm that Jasper feels !
Ah, no ! 'tis passion blighted !
The owlet's shriek makes white my cheek,
The dark toads stray across my way,
And sorely am I frighted.
XXIII.
" Amid the broom my bed I'll make,
Dry fern shall be my pillow ;
And, Mary, dear ! wert thou but here,
Blest should I be, sweet maid, with thee,
To weave a crown of willow.
XXIV.
" The church-yard path is wet with dew,
Hence, ravens ! for I fear ye !
Fall, gentle showers, revive the flowers
That feebly wave on Mary's grave ;
But whisper— she will hear you I
XXV.
" Beneath the yew-tree's shadow long,
I'll hide me and be wary ;
But I shall weep when others sleep !
Is it the dove that calls its love ?
No ! 'tis the voice of Mary !
XXVI.
" How merrily the lark is heard !
The ruddy dawn advancing :
Jasper is gay ! his wedding-day
To-morrow's sun shall see begun,
With music and with dancing !
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212
MRS.
XXVII.
" How sullen moon* the midnight main !
How wide the dim scene stretches !
The moony light all silver white,
Across the wave, illumes the grave
Of Heaven-deserted wretches I
XXVIII.
" The dead-lights gleam, the signak sounds !
Poor bark! the storm will beat thee !
What spectre stands upon the sands?
'Tis Mary dear! Oh do not feaiw
Thy Jasper flies to meet thee !"
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
The pot-boy yells discordant ! All along
The sultry pavement, the old-clothes man cries
In tone monotonous, and side-long views
The area for his traffic : now the bag
Is slily open*d, and the half-worn suit
(Sometimes the pilfer'd treasure of the base
Domestic spoiler), for one half its worth,
Sinks in the green abyss. The porter now
Bears his huge load along the burning way ;
And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams,
To paint the summer morning.
XXIX.
Now to the silent river's side
Poor Jasper rush'd unwary 5
With frantic haste the green bank paced,
Plunged in the wave— no friend to save,
And, sinking, call'd— on Mary !
•
LONDON'S SUMMER MORNING.
Who has pot waked to list the busy sounds
Of summer's morning, in the sultry smoke
Of noisy London ? On the pavement hot
The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face
And tatter'd covering, shrilly bawls his trade,
Rousing the sleepy housemaid. At the door
The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell
Proclaims the dustman's office ; while the street
Is lost in clouds impervious. Now begins
The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts ;
While tinmen's shops, and noisy trunk-makers,
Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters,
Fruit barrows, and the hunger-giving cries
Of vegetable yenders, fill the air.
Now every shop displays its varied trade,
And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet
Of early walkers. At the private door
The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop,
Annoying the smart 'prentice, or neat girl,
Tripping with Dand-box lightly. Now the sun
Darts burning splendour on the glittering pane,
Save where the canvas awning throws a shade
On the gay merchandize. Now, spruce and
trim,
In shops (where beauty smiles with industry),
Sits the smart damsel ; while the passenger
Peeps through the window, watching every
charm.
Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute
Of humming insects, while the limy snare
Waits to enthral them. Now the lamp-lighter
Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly venturous,
To trim the half-fill'd lamp; while at his feet
LINES.
Bid me the ills of life endure,
Ills that shall rend my heart J
Bid me resign the hope of cure,
And cherish endless smart !
Bid me a weary wanderer be,
But never bid me part from thee !
Bid me encounter vulgar scern ;
And, hopeless of relief,
Bid me awake each sadden'd morn,
To feed the source of grief !
Bid me from pomp and splendour flce>
But never bid me fly from thee ! *
Bid me o'er barren deserts rove,
O'er mountains rude and bare ;
Bid me the keenest torments prove,
That feeling bosoms share !
Bid me no dawn of comfort see—
I'll bear it all— if blest with thee !
LESBIA AND HER LOVER.
Lesbia upon her bosom wore
The semblance of her lover 5
And oft with kisses she would cover
The senseless .Hoi, and adore
The dear capricious rover.
I^esbia would gaze upon his eyes,
And think they look'd so speaking,
That oft her gentle heart was breaking ;
While glancing round with frequent sighs,
She seem'd her lover seeking !
One day, says Reason, " Why embrace
A cold and senseless lever ?
What charms can youthful eyes discover
In such a varnish'd painted face ?
Prithee the task give over."
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TO JSA&OUSY, &c.
£13
Cried Lesbia, " Reason* wherefore blame?
Must you the cause be told ?
My breathing lover I behold
With features painted just the samo—
As senseless and as cold !
(l Then, Reason, 'tis the better way
The harmless to commend ;
My breathing lover soon would end
My weary life, to grief a prey-—
This never can offend !"
TO JEALOUSY.
A thousand torments wait on love ;
The sigh, the tear, the anguish'd groan !
But he who never learnt to prove
A jealous pang, has nothing known.
For jealousy, supreme of wo,
Nursed by distorted fancy's power,
Can round the heart bid misery grow,
Which darkens with the lingering hour ;
While shadows, blanks to reason's orb,
In dread succession haunt the brain;
And pangs, that every pang absorb,
In wild convulsive tumults reign.
At morn, at eve, the fever burns,
While phantoms tear the aching breast ;
Day brings no calm, and night returns,
But marks iio soothing hour of rest.
Nor when the bosom's wasted fires
Are all extinct, is anguish o'er ;
For jealousy, which ne'er expires,
Can wound-— when passion is no more.
TO A FRIEND
WHO ASKED THE AUTHOR'S OPINION OP
A KISS.
" What is a kiss?" 'tis but a seal
That, warmly printed, soon decays ;
"Ds but a zephyr taught to steal
Where fleeting falsehood, smiling, plays.
The breeze will kiss the flower— but soon
From flower to weed inconstant blows :
Such is the kiss of love, the boon
Which fickle fancy oft bestows.
A perfumed kiss once Venus gave
The rose that caught her lover's sigh ;
That rose with every gale would wave,
At every glance of morning die :
Would give its radiance to the beam
Which glowing noon promiscuous threw ;
Or to the twilight's parting gleam
Would yield responsive tears of dew.
Oft to the bee its love would give,
And breathe its odours wild around ;
With honied sweets bid pleasure live,
Or with its hidden mischiefs wound.
This rose was wnite, and to be blest,
Around it insect myriads flew,
Charm'd by the wonders of its breast,
Thrice essenced in the summer dew.
But when the lip of beauty shed
A rival sweetness on that breast,
It blush'd, and droop'd its fragrant head,
Ashamed to be so proudly blest.
Its colour changed, a crimson glow,
Fix'd on its alter'd form, appears ;
While round the sighing zephyrs blow,
And Nature bathes its leaves in teal's.
Then, does not every kiss impart,
In magic thrills of speechless pleasure,
Reproaches to the wandering heart,
That knows not how to prize the treasure ?
O yes ! then let thy bosom prove
No throb — but friendship's throb divine;
And let the kiss of fickle love,
Capricious monitor,i-be thine<(
A REFLECTION.
The loathsome toad, whose misery feeds
On noxious dews and baneful weeds,
Disgusts the startled sight ;
Yet, when the sultry vapours lower,
He drinks the poison from each flower,
Shook by the wings of night.
Behold the beauteous speckled snake,
Writhing amidst the leafy brake,
Gilt by the beams of day :
Mark, as the wandering victim's eyes
Fix on its dazzling orient dyes,
The traitor stings its prey !
Trace, then, the moral, simply true ;
Here Nature's varying picture view,
Where outward forms deceive ;
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214 MRS.
Where worth In loathsome garb we find.
While glittering vice, with power combined.
In splendid baseness live !
THE
POET'S GARRET.
Comb, sportive fancy ! come with me, and trace
The poet's attic home ! the lofty seat
Of the heaven-tutor'd nine ! the airy throne
Of bold Imagination, rapture fraught
Above the herds of mortals. All around
A solemn stillness seems to guard the scene,
Nursing the brood of thought — a thriving brood
In the rich mazes of the cultured brain.
Upon thy altar, an old worm-eat board,
The pannel of a broken door, or lid
Of a strong coffer, placed on three-legg'd stool,
Stand quires of paper, white and beautiful !
Paper, by destiny ordain'd to be
Scrawl'd o'er and blotted ; dash'd, and scratch'd,
and torn ; *
Or mark'd with lines severe, or scatter'd wide
In rage Impetuous ! Sonnet, song, and ode,
Satire, and epigram, and smart charade ;
Neat paragraph, or legendary tale,
Of short and simple metre, each by turns
Will there delight the reader.
On the bed
Lies an old rusty suit of " solemn black,"—
Brush'd thread-bare, and, with brown, unglossy
hue,
Grown somewhat ancient. On the floor is seen
A pair of silken hose, whose footing bad
Shows they are travellers, but who still bear
Marks somewhat holy. At the scanty fire
A chop turns round, by packthread strongly
held;
And on the blacken'd bar a vessel shines
Of batter'd pewter, just half fill'd, and warm,
With Whitbread's beverage pure. The k'tten
Anticipating dinner ; while the wind [purs,
Whistles through broken panes, and drifted
snow
Carpets the parapet with spotless garb,
Of vestal coldness. Now the sullen hour
(The fifth hour after noon) with dusky hand
Closes the lids of day. The farthing light
Gleams through the cobweb'd chamber, and j
the bard j
Concludes his pen's hard labour. Now he eats
With appetite voracious ! nothing sad
That he with costly plate, and napkins fine,
Nor china rich, nor fork of silver, greets
His eye or palate. On his lyric board
A sheet of paper serves for table-cloth ;
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
A heap of salt is served,— oh ! heavenly treat ?
On ode Pindaric ! while his tuneful puss
Scratches his slipper for her fragment sweet
And sings her love-song soft, yet mournfully.
Mocking the pillar Doric, or the roof
Of architecture Gothic, all around [fame !
The well-known ballads flit, of Grub-street
The casement, broke, gives breath celestial
To the long dying-speech j or gently fans
The love-inflaming sonnet. All around
Small scraps of paper lie, torn vestiges
Of an unquiet fancy. Here a page
Of flights poetic— there a dedication—
A list of dramatis persona?, bold,
Of heroes yet unborn, and lofty dames
Of perishable compound, light as fair,
But sentenced to oblivion !
On a shelf,
(Yclept a mantle-piece) a phial stands,
Half fill'd with potent spirits !— spirits strong,
Which sometimes haunt the poet's restless brain,
And fill his mind with fancies whimsical.
Poor poet ! happy art thou, thus removed
From pride and folly ! for in thy domain
Thou canst command thy subjects; fill thy
lines ; [stows
Wield th* all-conquering weapon Heaven be-
On the grey goose's wing! which, towering
high,
Bears thy sick fancy to immortal fame !
TO
JOHN TAYLOR, Esq.
To the heart that has feeling, what gift is so
rare
As the wreath which the hand of true ele-
gance weaves ?
'Tis the only delight which proud friendship
can share ; [gives !
For bestowing it, tastes the same rapture it
Like the soft dews of morning, it flows from the
mind ! [day !
To expand the weak lossom, just waking to
Like the sunbeam, with warmth and with lustre
combined,
It diffuses its perfumes, and bids it look gay !
Then think not the praises your kindness be-
stows, [die ;
Like the zephyrs, pass over my bosom, and
For, I know, 'tis from friendship the bright
current flows,
That reflects the small floweret with tints of
the sky! '
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TO LEONARDO.
215
With the fair hand of nature to guide me along,
I no laurel from art or from learning implore !
For my bosom, that prompts the rude efforts of
song,
Courts the wild-rose of Fancy, and asks for
The rose that pure friendship divests of its
thorns ! [bloom !
And the breath of fond praise bids eternally
That through life the rough path-way with
fragrance adorns ! [tomb !
And with Hope's gentle promise encircles the
LINES
Sent by Peter Pindar to Mrs. Robinson, borrowing
her Lap-Dog to paint his Likeness.
From her who sweeps the Sapphic lyre,
Come, pretty cur, whom I admire ;
A moment quit her fond embrace.
Yes, little creature, haste away,
Whate'er thy name, Bejoux or Tray ;
And let me paint thy mop-like face.
O tell thy mistress, if she choose
Her idle moments to amuse
With my shock poll, instead of thine,
She's welcome, up or in her bed,
To smooth my ears or pat my head,
And bid me on her breast recline.
Were this to happen, I should be,
O cur, a happier dug than th.^e.
THE
ANSWER.
BY MRS. ROBINSON.
O Petir ! since thy sportive Muse
A puppy for her theme will choose,
How envied must his race of brothers be !
How will their mop-like tresses flow,
How will their mops and long ears glow,
When crown'd by genius, Peter, and by thee !
But thou, the Muses' watch-dog, Peter,
Who scared the highest with thy metre,
Thou never wouldst a servile state survive :
Thou wouldst not wear a puppy's chain,
But treating bondage with disdain,
Wouldst hope to lead where I would wish to
drive.
Then, Peter, boast a nobler pate,
Nor envy Shock's inglorious state ;
For, know, the puppy species I despise !
With thee I'll wander, wake, or dream,
By Helicon's immortal stream,
Where Peter guards a passage to the skies !
But if, in sportive vein, you seek
To paint a puppy's whisker' d cheek,
My little favourite shall your levee grace ;
For oft, if they are not belied,
At levees, in due pomp and pride,
The highest patronize the fawning race.
My dog has something more to boast ;
He scorns the cringing, sneaking host,
And looks to lasting wreaths by genius twined ;
Since Peter, with his magic help,
Will keep in countenance the whelp,
And prove the painter, like the puppy— kind !
TO LEONARDO.
And dost thou hope to fan my flame
With the soft breath of Friendship's name?
And dost thou think the thin disguise
Can veil the mischief from my eyes ?
Alas, sweet bard ! the dazzling ray
Long round my fearful heart did play
In Reason's sober mantle dress 'd ;
It pour'd warm incense on my breast,
My mind in rosy fetters bound,
Then, smiling, gave the insidious woun 1 !
Yes, I have lived each bliss to feel
That o'er the sensate heart can steal ;
Have tasted all that youth could bring
On giddy fashion's painted wing ;
Have mark'd the base and sordid mini
Couch'd in the sentiment refined !
Have known flush'd adulation's song
The brain's weak labyrinths wind amonp,
And with its feathery touch impart
Corroding anguish to the heart !
Have heard the soothing, specious tale
O'er the unguarded sense prevail,
In every varying clime the same,
Under the mask of Friendship's name.
Harmonious bard ! if thou hast found
Envenom'd Slander's careless wound ;
If hopes o'erthrown, and jealous fears,
Have drench'd thy manly cheek with tears ;
If fell Caprice, insatiate fiend,
Has taught the darling of thy mind,
Unblushing, with the vile to rove
In the coarse path of vagrant love ;
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216
HERS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
O scorn the wretch, subdue thy pains,
And soar exulting from her chains !
Yes, I can " triumph,*' I can " bear,"
Can quell the ruthless fiend Despair;
Can brave Ingratitude's keen dart,
And pluck it, rankling) from my heart.
But cease thy soft notes' silver strain,
rhat wakes thy soul to living pain j
Cease to recall thy slumbering mind
To all the pangs it left behind i
Perhaps again love's potent art
May wind a spell about thy heart,
May round its branching fibres twine
The thrilling joy, the hope divine,
Thy feeling breast again may prove
Th* ecstatic harmonies of love.
Nor will I bend my lonely way
Where cheerless horror vails the day :
Can .Lapland's chilling spheres control
The genial warmth that swells the soul?
'Midst lakes of ice, or clouds of snow,
Thy swelling bosom still would glow ;
Nor will its vivid powers decay
'Till life's last flame shall fade away !
THE
SNAKE AND THE LINNET;
A FABLE.
Inscribed to Her who will remember it*
Self-pamper'd ignorance, in fancied state,
Frowns on the humbler dignity of worth I
Through life'a short summer, miserably great ;
And, born illustrious — shames the pride of birth t
Beside a wood, whose lofty shade
O'ercanopy'd the neighbouring glade,
Where no rude wanderer's step was seen
To print the dew that gemm'd the green j
Where many a wild-flower, scattered round,
Shed fragrance o'er the enamell'd ground ;
Beneath a branch of verdant hue,
To chant its lays, a Linnet flew ;
Tired of its life, it sought repose,
And pour'd its plaint, to soothe Its woes :
For long the tuneful feather'd choir
Had vex'd its heart with envious ire ;
. Aim, conscious of its sweeter lays,
With insult mock'd its harmless days.
Its soft song echo'd through the grove,
Mild as the murmurs of the dove ;
Not e'en the Lark's melodious throat
Could emulate its thrilling note*
Oft, at still evening's hour, it fleW
To sip the drops of scented deW,
That, trickling from the cowslip's head,
Adorn* d with pearls its mossy bed ;
While owl* and ravens, hovering near,
With screams discordant dinn'd its ear :
For hateful to th' envious throng,
Are the sweet sounds of witching song ;
And vainly shall its magic steal
O'er the doll mind that cannot feeL
Near, on a bank, with flowerets drest,
A speckled reptile form'd its nest ;
Oft would it writhe in wanton play,
And bask beneath the solar ray.
The Snake the gentle warbler spy'd,
In all its charms — in all its pride ;
And, dazzled with its lustrous dyes,
Its shining form, its brilliant eyes,
FleW round its head with curious gaz<»,
And wanton'd 'midst Its leafy maze ;
But, ah ! the linnet's 'witching strain
Assail'd its tasteless ears in vain ;
For the fell snake, with murderous art, ,
Glanced at its breast, and stung its heart i
'Tis thus the fairest forms invite,
With gUttering charms, the wondering sight :
We gaze upon the beauteous mien,
Nor dread its mischiefs while unseen ;
Nor feel, that modest worth confess'd
Inflames with rage the envious breast j
While mean and fulsome flattery finds
A welcome pass— to vulgar minds !
ODE;
THE EAGLE AND FLOCK OF GEESF.
How rarely, by the outward show,
The inward soul can mortals know !
How gaudy flits the insect's wing,
While We gaze, heedless of its sting !
How lustrous to the startled eye
Seems the swift lightning, darting by !
But moralizing is so very old,
A fable shall, in lieu of it, be told.
Once on a tifte* an eagle bold*
(Appointed by his master j Jove,
O'er this terrestrial sphere to rove)
Held his high station on a sea girt shore,
Where many a whitening billow rott'd,
Laving the strand with desolating roar 1
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THE BA6U3 AND GEESE.
217
Jjong had he tower' d the sovereign of the peak,
His cloud-roof d' nest defied the wind and
A solitude sublime, [rain ;
Sacred to deathless Time !
No human foot the craggy height would seek,
Save where the ship-wreck'd soul, despairing,
clung
On the wild reeds that round it hung,
Or waved fantastic, mocking the roused main !
There, 'mid the deafening din of wind and
wave,
This lordly bird his daring eye would roll ;
And oft his pinions in the green-deep lave?
And oft, with ravenous beak, the lesser birds
control :
The curlew's yell, the bittern's hollow cry,
Would greet the lofty despot passing by ;
Till all the neighbouring rocks were left, and he
Reign' d tyrant of the cliff that bound the raging
sea.
Sick with the plenitude of power,
This eagle, in a gloomy hour,
Regardless of his master, Jove,
Resolved to rove ;
An^ skimming o'er the waters wide,
Ambition-taught, a new dominion tried.
On th' ethereal floods of day,
He tent, with eager rage, his ardent way ;
With steady eye he view'd the solar blaze,
And bask'd, undazzled, in meridian rays;
Full on the western gale his course pursued,
And. with imperious pride, bathed in the sunny
flood!
To make my fable short', this bird,
Like many of Ambition's race,
With consciousness of strength was grown ab-
surd, [grace :
Or, plainer speaking, sought his own dis-
The bird of mighty Jove (thought he)
May scatter wide the bolts of destiny.
Away he flies !
Thirsting for carnage, eager to embrue
His talons in the streaming blood
Of lesser birds (more useful and more good : )
for this proud eagle knew no joy
Like that which prompts the powerful to de-
stroy !
Soon to a distant scene he came,
Where, on a yellow, broomy heath,
Quaffing the dawn's resuscitating breath,
Waddled a flock of geese, peaceful and tame *.
No towering wings had they, but fed content
On stubble, or what bounteous Nature sent ;
And, till this luckless hour,
They felt, by an instinctive power,
That the wide mead, and golden heath,
The breezy morn, the sunny noon,
The dewy vale, soft twilight's breath,
Sighing its odours to the modest moon ;
Skies, seasons, herbage, water, wind,
Were all for Nature's commoners design 'd;
That the world-fostering sun
O'er all his equal journey run :
Poor fools ! they little knew that Heaven's best
things - .
Were portion'd out by birds with eagle wings ;
That all the lord of sunny lustre seizes,
He hovers o'er; and gives them what he pleases ;
That is to say, he lets them all alone
Provided he may call the airy world— his own '
The eagle now was hovering near ;
The geese look'd up askance, and gabbled loud
with fear !
" Dull birds !" the sun-eyed desolator cried,
" Soon in your panting hearts my talons shall;
be dyed !
Plebeian brawlers ! you shall know
That 1 was destined to subdue
Such things as you !
And crush your little empire base and low.
Look at these eyes,
Behold the fire that in them lies !
View my resistless wing,
Form'd from ethereal heights to spring !
Though gaunt my lofty form,
Toil- worn with many a busy storm,
With restless nights and restless days,
Still can I meet the sun with dauntless gaze ;
That sun which lends me all his light,
And sanctions my aerial flight :
Plebeians bold,
Shrink and behold !"
" Well !" cried a gander fierce and old,
We listen, and we do behold !
We hear thee arrogant and vain,
Disturbing this our peaceful plain !
We know that fate has given thee power
O'er earth, and oceaus vast to scower ;
But what attends thy lofty flight?
Do you not ravage all you find,
Filling the harmless with affright,
And mangling our defenceless kind ?
Shame on such cruel sport, away !
Go hide thy meagre form in shades,
Brave not the redden'd front of day,
But skulk in cavern'd rocks and gloomy glades.
No use art thou to human-kind ;
For though with crimson rag, our race
Is driven to slaughter and disgrace,
Still are we for some good design'd :
And though we yield our little breath,
We save the creature man from death :
We feed him, and he finds his ends
In making humble, birds bis friends :
While fierce despoilers, such as thee,
But dash with bitter woes our cup of destiny !"
Ee
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218
MBS. ROBINSON'S POBMS.
So says the fable 1 Let the eagle's wing
Above such lowly teachers fly ;
For harmless, humble, peaceful birds, I sing,
Their fellow-commoner, and Nature's lau-
reat, I!
LINES
Written on a Day of Public Rejoicing.
While shouts and acclamations rend the skies,
From the deep ocean, bleeding, cold, and wan,
See groaning spectres in a phalanx rise,
To mourn the miseries of ambitious man !
O'er them the rude sea dashes, mix'd with gore ;
The wild winds howl in dreadful blasts along ;
The sulphur showers upon the high deck roar,
And livid lightnings flash the waves among !
Here glides the parent, bleeding is his breast \
Here the lost husband falls, and, groaning,
dies!
Here the loved sons, the mother's darlings, rest,
While o'er their mangled limbs the billows
rise!
Are these forgot? Oh! Nature! yet awhile
Shed the soft tear, and heave the tender sigh ;
Suspend the shout of triumph, rapture's smile ;
And raise, in sorrow raise, the tearful eye.
Let reason, truth, religion's power divine,
Call to the feeling and reflecting mind
The wretched sufferers who in anguish pine—
The soldier's, sailor's kindred— left behind !
And while the long-drawn pompous cavalcade
Bids clamorous exultation lift the head ;
Let mild humanity the triumph aid,
And pity's tear embalm the sainted dead !
THE SWAN.
Majestic bird ! who lovest to glide
In all the plumed pomp of pride !
Who in the glassy stream all day
Pursuest the bright pellucid way !
Why art thou, bird of splendid grace,
More favoured than thy kindred race ?
Why art thou form'd so wondrous fair,
With downy breast, and pinions rare ?
And wherefore, on the liquid way,
Dost thou enjoy superior sway?
No song is thine, no thrilling note
Winds dulcet from thy beauteous throat ;
No mazy flight thy wings essay
Along the burning plains of day !
No murmuring cadence marks in thee
Love's soul-entrancing minstrelsy !
Thou canst not raise the eagle eye
*To greet the sovereign of the sky !
No sweetly social instinct sways
The tenor of thy placid days ;
Man finds in thee no cheerful song
To lead his weary feet along ;
No mild domestic friend to pour
Soft music through life's sombre hour :
For thou, to sullen pleasures prone,
Liv'st, proudly, for thyself alone !
The lark, that soars on early wing,
And, soaring, loves his joy to sing ;
The swallow, who to distant skies,
Allured by gentler zephyrs, flies ;
The thrush, that twitters while the dawn
Spreads purpling lustre o'er the lawn,
Are richer far in powers than thee,
With all thy vaunted majesty !
Then what avails thy lofty crest?
What all the down that clothes thy breast ?
What thy slow-gliding haughty grace,
That scarcely moves the lucid space?
Man finds in thee no soft control
To heal the pain-inflicted soul !
For outward beauty's pleasing power
Charms only for its little hour ;
And reason sickens when we fiud
A form without a kindred mind '
LINES
On hearing a Gentleman declare, that no Women
were so handsome as the English,
Beauty, the attribute of heaven,
In various forms to mortals given,
With magic skill enslaves mankind,
As sportive fancy sways the mind.
Search the wide world — go where you will,
Variety pursues you still :
Capricious Nature knows no bound,
. Her unexhausted gifts are found
In every clime, in every face,
Each has its own peculiar grace.
fo Gallia's frolic scenes repair,
There reigns the tiny debonnaire
The mincing step, the slender waist,
The lip with bright vermilion graced ;
The short pert nose, the pearly teeth,
With the small dimpled chin beneath ;
The social converse, gay and free,
The smart bon mot and revarte'e.
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STANZAS.
219
Italia boasts the melting fair,
The pointed step, the stately air ;
Th' impassion' d look, the languid eye,
The voice of thrilling harmony ;
Insidious love, conceal'd in smiles,
That charms, and as it charms, beguiles.
View Grecian maids, whose finish'd forms
Th 1 admiring sculptor's fancy warms ;
There let thy wondering eye behold
The softest gems of nature's mould ;
The look that Reynolds learnt to trace
From Sheridan's* bewitching face.
Imperious Turkey's pride is seen
In beauty's rich luxuriant mien ;
The dark and sparkling orbs. that glow
Beneath a polish front of snow ;
The auburn curl, which zephyr blows
About the cheek of glowing rose ;
The ahorten'd zone, the swelling breast,
With costly gems profusely dress'd,
Reclined in softly waving bowers,
On painted beds of fragrant flowera ;
Where odorous canopies dispense
Arabia's spices to the sense ;
Where listless indolence and ease
Proclaim the sovereign wish—to please.
'Us thus capricious fancy shows
How far her frolic empire goes :
On Asia's sands, on Alpine snow,
We trace her steps where'er we go ;
The British maid with timid grace,
The tawny Indian's vamish'd face,
The jetty African, the fair
Nursed by Europa's softer air,
With various charms delight the mind j
For fancy governs all mankind.
STANZAS,
WRITTEN FOR « THE SHRINE OF BERTHA."*
Pleased with the calm bewitching hour,
When, evening shadows o'er the plain,
1 seek my solitary bower,
And listen to the night-owl's strain !
Here, where the woven ivy hangs,
Once the rich shrine of marble rose !
And chaste-eyed vestals sigh'd their pangs,
And bathed, with icy tears, their woes.
• 8ee the portrait of the late Mrs. Sheridan, in- the
character of Saint Cecilia.
t A Novel, by M. E. Robuidon.
And here, where on the rugged ground
The sculptured fragments scatter' d lie,
Erst did the choral anthem sound,
And holy incense meet the sky.
jWhat are ye now ? ye arches drear,
What can ye show to soothe the breast?
Save pensive twilight's frequent tear,.
That falls in crystal lustre drest !
Yet o'er the scene of rude decay
Blithe nature darts the morning beam !
And here the blushing evening ray
Inspires the soul with fancy's dream !
And here wan Cynthia sheds her light,
The shatter' d roofs and walls among ;
And here the solemn hour of night
Is cheer'd by philomela's song !
And here the pilgrim, poor and sad,
No kindred smile his breast to warm,
May find what cruel foes forbad,
A shelter from the howling storm !
Blow, blow, ye keen, ye ruthless winds !
Ye livid lightnings, dart around !
While terror freezes guilty minds,
And conscience owns the cureless, wound.
Here can I view, unchill d with dread,,
The lofty aisle and shadowy dome ;
The turrets tottering o'er the dead ;
The long-drawn monumental gloom !
Here, still, without one holy rite,
The hapless Bertha's form shall sleep !
While blushing rigour shrinks from light,
And Melancholy hides— to weep.
With Superstition gliding round,
A thousand ghastly shades shall gleam ;
While o'er the dew-besprinkled ground
Steals the faint moon's retiring beam !
Yet, hither shall the red-breast bring
The lily, and the palest rose ;
And all the fairest flowers of spring,
To dress her bed — of long repose.
Oh, gentle bird ! no wanderer rude
Shall bid thee from these ruins flee ;
Blest minstrel of this solitude !
Still shalt thou sing— to solace me.
STANZAS.
The chilling gale that nipp'd the rose,
Now murmuring sinks to soft repose i
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220 MRS,
The shadowy vapours sail away
Upon the silvery floods of day ;
Health breathes on every face I see;
But, ah ! she breathes no more on me !
ROBINSON'S POEMS.
I go to paths of brighter hue :
Yet memory oft shall wander here;
And Fancy still shall flowerets strew,
Begemm'd with Pity's holy tear !
The butterfly, with rain-Dow wing)
Flits round the blushing front of spring ;
And if a gloomy hour appears,
Fans her warm breast, and sips her tears.
Love wakes the feather'd choir to glee ;
But, ah ! they wake no more for me !
The jasmine wafts its perfume meek,
To kiss the rose's glowing cheek ;
Pale twilight sheds her vagrant showers
To wake Aurora's infant flowers ;
May smiles their native charms to see ;
But, ah ! she smiles no more on me !
The sea-boy, by the tempest's roar,
Dash'd on seme rude and rocky shore,
Sees Hope, amidst the furious foam,
That points towards his distant home !
But I, alas ! shall never see
Hope's radiant beam reflect on me !
E'en Zembla's freezing sons, forlorn,
Await their long-expected morn ;
Swift to their icy cliffs they run,
To greet, at length, the tardy sun !
But dark despair shall never see
The dawn of comfort shine on me .'
Then, far I'll wander, where no ray
Breaks through the gloom of doubtful day ;
There will I court the midnight hour,
The lingering dawn, the wintry shower ;
For cold and comfortless shall be
Each future scene ordain'd for me !
STANZAS.
FROM " THE SHRINE OP BERTHA."
Farewell! dear haunts of pleasing woes !
Ye sun-burnt vales and forests drear ;
Where oft, at evening's solemn close,
I drop the sad, the pensive tear.
Farewell ! ye vineyards, whose rich glow
Derides the flaming orb of light !
Ye limpid streams, that brawling flow,
Ye vanes, that greet the traveller's sight.
Farewell, ye shades of mountain pine,
Ye rude rocks, blackening o'er the wave;
And, oh ! farewell, dear rugged shrine,
That marks my Bertha's lowly grave.
And when to distant realms I stray,
To mingling scenes of pomp and glee,
Oft will I steal, loved shade, to pray,
And drop a tender tear for thee !
That tear perchance may give relief,
And medicine comfort to my woes !
For oft from sympathetic grief
The wounded bosom finds repose.
Oh ! . I would ruminate and mourn
From early dawn 'till fading eve ;
For 'midst the gay this heart forlorn
Would turn to thee— and turn to grieve.
Still would my zealous care display
Each tribute thy sad fate demands !
Oft would I scatter garlands gay,
To shield thee from unhallow'd hands.
When morn, Hs sunny wings spread wide,
Should wake each flower of gaudiest hue,
Thy shrine should glow with softer pride,
My tears surpass its spangling dew !
And when at evening's crimson hour
The bat and beetle flit around,
Faint echo, from yon mouldering towfer,
Should greet my song's prophetic sound.
And when the tissued veil of night
Should scatter wide a doubtful gloom,
Oft would I steal from mortal sight,
To weep and sigh o'er Bertha's tomb !
But, ah ! farewell ! no more thy strain
Shall vibrate through yon cloister's shade ;
No more enchant the village swain,
Or sooth to hope the love-lorn maid !
No more, when rapt in pensive mood, ,
The convent's bell, with silver sound,
Shall echo through yon spectred wood,
To wake me from my dream profound ;
No more the distant taper's glare '
Shall through the painted windows burn,
To mark the vesper hour of prayer, '
And bid my truant steps — return !
Oh, Bertha ! since ordain'd to part,
Since destined from thy dust to stray,
Let resignation bathe my heart !
And thy meek spirit— guide my way
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THE MISER, fee.
THE MISER.
Miser, why countest thou thy treasure,
Thy ill got hoards of paltry gold?
Hast thou a throb of secret pleasure
When conscience whispers soft and slow,
These are the shoals that from oppression flow,
For which thy fame is sold?
Why dost thou doat on useless ore?
Thou hast no joy in all thy wealth ;
Thou never hear'st the simple poor
Bless thy benevolence, and cry,
While gratitude illumes the upraised eye,
" Heaven grant thee years of health !"
Why dost thou, in the gloom of night,
While the loud tempest rages wide,
Tremble with horror's cold affright,
And, grasping every shining wo,
To some dark nook with faltering footsteps go,
Thy useless heaps to hide ?
Dost thou not hear the thunder's voice,
Reproving Heaven's just vengeance, speak?
Dost thou not hear the fiends rejoice,
While on thy tottering roof obscure,
The tears of outraged Nature whelming pour,
To chill thy withered cheek?
See thy lean frame, thy sunken eyes ;
Behold thy victor Death, and know,
That when the wretched miser dies,
No bosom pities — on his tomb
No grateful wreath of spring shall ever bloom,
No tear of friendship flow !
Forgotten— -or, if not, abhorr'd !
Can all thy treasures left behind,
Bid memory thy toil reward,
Or meek religion breathe to Heaven
One prayer that thou may'st ever be forgiven,
O ! miscreant unkind !
Thou that wouldst live beloved, caress 'd,
Let sweet humanity be given
By thee to e'en a foe distress'd :
For where the child of virtue sighs,
Where genius to thy open threshold flies,
Know, 'tis the path to heaven !
STANZAS
Presented with a Gold Cftain Ring to a once dear
Friend.
Oh ! take these little easy chains,
And may they hold you while you live :
For know, each magic link contains
The richest treasure I can give !
An emblem, earnest, of my love !
Pure as the gold that forms the toy ;
The more 'tis tried, the more 'twill prov/
Beyond the touch of base alloy.
As even as these links shall be
The giver's mind, that scorns to range ;
And, like the heart ordain' d for thee,
. They may be broke ! but cannot change !
Then, take the little shining toy,
And may it never quit thy sight;
And let it be my proudest joy,
To know my chains, though lasting, light
S
A FRAGMENT.
I love the labyrinth, the silent glade, •
For soft repose, and conscious rapture made ;
The melancholy murmurs of the rill,
The moaning zephyrs, and the breezy hill ;
The torrent, roaring from the flinty steep,
The morning gales that o'er the landscape sweep,
The shade that dusky twilight meekly draws
O'er the calm interval of Nature's pause 1
Till the chaste moon, slow stealing o'er the
plain,
Wraps the dark mountain in her silvery train !
Soothing, with sympathetic tears, the breast
That seeks for solitude, and sighs for rest !
TO
THE MAY FLY.
Poor insect ! what a little day
Of sunny bliss is thine !
And yet thou spread'st thy light wings gay,
And bidst them, spreading, shine.
Thou humm'st thy short and busy tune,
Unmindful of the blast ;
And careless, while 'tis burning noon,
How quick that noon be past !
A shower would lay thy beauty low ;
The dew of twilight be
The torrent of thy overthrow,
Thy storm of destiny !
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222
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Then spread thy little shining wing,
Hum on thy busy lay !
For man, like thee, has but his spring,
Like thine, it fades away !
JANUARY, 1795.
Pavement slippery, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing ;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a arret starvin .
Lofty mansions, warm and spacious ;
Courtiers cringing and voracious ;
Misers scarce the wretched heeding ;
Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.
Wives who laugh at passive spouses ;
Theatres, and meeting-houses ;
Balls, where simpering misses languish ;
Hospitals, and groans of anguish.
Arts and sciences bewailing ;
Commerce drooping, credit failing ;
Placemen mocking subjects loyal ;
-Separations, weddings royal.
Authors who can't earn a dinner ;
Many a subtle rogue a winner ;
Fugitives for shelter seeking ;
Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.
Taste and talents quite deserted ;
All the laws of truth perverted ;
Arrogance o'er merit soaring ;
Merit silently deploring
Ladies gambling night and morning ;
Fools the works of genius scorning ;
Ancient dames for girls mistaken ;
Youthful damsels quite forsaken.
Some in luxury delighting ;
More in talking than in fighting ;
Lovers old, and beaux decrepid ;
Lordlings empty and insipid.
Poets, painters, and musicians ;
Lawyers, doctors, politicians :
Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes.
Seeking fame by different roads.
Gallant souls with empty purses ;
Generals only fit for nurses ;
School-boys, smit with martial spirit,
Taking place of veteran merit.
Honest men who can t get places,
Knaves who show unblushing faces -
Ruin hasten'd, peace retarded ;
Candour spurn* d, and art rewarded.
IMPROMPTU
Sent to a Friend who had left his Gloves, by mistake,
at the Author's house on the preceding evening.
Your gloves I send,
My worthy friend,
With no gallant intent :
With gauntlet I
No knight defy;
So take it as 'tis meant.
In merry mood,
'Tis understood,
That frolic fancy loves,
When eye-lids -close
In sweet repose,
To steal a pair of gloves.
But neither here
(I vow and swear)
My sportive measures rule ;
Too weak to wield
The daring shield,
Too old to play the fooL
Though dark their hue,
Their semblance true,
Like fortune's frowns appear;
By absence torn,
Like me, they mourn
For him— who thought them dear.
Then take the pair,
And let them share
The warmth that from your bre.u.c
On all bestows,
The balm of woes,
Which gives to sorrow— rest !
These truant twins,
To mend their sins,
Shall wait your kind command ;
And every day
Or sad, or gay,
Shall — take you by the hand.
In solitude,
'Mid sorrows rude,
Or passion's wildest storm,
Where'er you go,
Through weal or wo,
You'll find them ever warm*
So fare you well ;
This pair shall tell,
And tell with lungs of leather,
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ANACREONTIC
223
That friends who part,
Must know the smart
They never feel together.
MADRIGAL.
Lots was a little blooming boy,
Fond, innocent, and true ;
His every smile was fraught with joy,
And every joy was new !
Till stealing from his mother's side,
The urchin lost his way ;
And wandering far o'er deserts wide,
Thus, weeping, pour'd his lay :
•« O Time ! I'll dress thy locks of snow
With wreaths of fragrant flowers ;
And all that rapture can bestow
Shall deck thy fleeting hours :
But for one day, one little day,
Thy wings in pity spare ;
That I may homeward bend my way,
For all my wreaths are there."
Time, cheated by his tears and sighs,
The wily god confess'd ;
When, soaring to his native skies,
He sought his mother's breast !
£ bort was his bliss ! the treacherous boy
Was hurl'd from clime to clime,
And found, amidst his proudest joy,
He'd still the wings of Time !
ANACREONTIC.
TO CUPID.
Hither, god of pleasing pain,
Hither bring my wand'ring swain ;
See, my bower is hung with roses,
On my couch Content reposes ;
See, fond, Hope her blush concealing,
O'er the ivy'd threshold stealing ;
While to meet her, Bliss advances*
Mark their soft ecstatic glances !
Here shall Mirth his revels keep,
While dull Care retires to weep.
Now the myrtle wreaths divine
Round my auburn tresses twine ;
See my white transparent vest
Scarce confines my beating breast ;
Hark ! the lyre's melodious measure
Wakes the vapid soul to pleasure ;
Light-heel'd Graces, tripping round,
Scarcely print the velvet ground
Time arrests his busy wing,
And wantons in the sportive ring ;
See ! his scythe he throws away,
And scorns to stint the rapturous day !
See, advancing full of glee,
Laughing Health and Jollity !
Dapper fairies, skipping, strew
Fragrant buds begemm'd with dew !
See, the rosy god of wine,
Crown'd with clustering boughs of vine,
Sportive, mirth-inspiring guest,
Temperance leads to grace the feast !
See, the tuneful Nine advance ;
And Valour, with his laurel'd lance ;
And Sport, with glowing cheek of fire ;
And bright-eyed Truth, and young Desire ;
While in their train, with modest mien,
Divine Philanthropy js seen !
And gentle Friendship wandering nigu,
And Sympathy with tearful eye ;
While godlike Genius, heaven's best boast
Sheds radiance o'er the glittering host !
Come, then, god of pleasing pain,
Come, then, with my wandering swain ;
See, my bower drops ruby wine,
Canopy'd with twisted vine !
See, in every citron grove,
Luscious fruits to feast my love.
Bring him quickly, darling boy !
Touch his heart with conscious joy :
If he pines with jealous fears,
With thy breath disperse his tears ;
If he sighs repentant, say,
Love shall waft those sighs away !
Zephyr, whose enamell'd wing
Fans the perfumed breast of spring,
Essence on my pillow throws,
Pilfer'd from the musky rose ;
Pillow ! thou shalt ne'er be press'd
Till my vagrant love shall rest !
Say, thou rosy urchin, say,
Is not Life a fleeting day?
Morn, a scene of childish folly ;
Evening, cold and melancholy ?
Let us revel while 'tis noon ;
Sombre night will shroud us soon.
See the star of twilight peep
O'er yon mountain's dusky steep ;
Round thy brow thy fillet bind :
Love that roves, is ever blind !
Soft, perhaps the truant swain
Sighs some other nymph to gain :
Gentle urchin, if 'tis so,
Let the silly wanderer go.
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224
MRS. ROBUfSOIPS POEMS,
No, he comes ! I own thy skill !
Now, let the fates do what they will !
STANZAS.
Teach me, love, since thy torments no precepts
can cure,
Since reflection and reason deny me relief;
Oh ! teach me thy scorn and thy wrongs to en-
dure,
While the halm of resentment shall solace
my grief.
Let my sighs never heave, let my tears never
flow, [defy ;
Let the smile of contempt the stern victor
For the tear has a charm which no art can he-
stow,
And the language of love is the soul-breath-
ing sigh.
Let me shun the proud despot who causes my
care, [dain ;
Lest the torture I suffer should feed his dis-
For my tyrant delights in the pang of despair,
And the sound which he loves, is the deep
groan of pain.
I will traverse the desert, climb mountains un-
trod,
Where reflection shall sadden with legions
of woes ;
I will cool my scorch' d brain on the dew-moist-
en'd sod,
While around my torn bosom the loud tem-
pest blows.
Yet the mild breath of morning shall bid the
storm fly,
And the sun's glowing wreath shall encircle
the steep ;
But my bosom shall never forget the deep sigh,
Nor my eyes lose their vision that prompts
them to weep.
Then, oh ! where shall I wander in search of re-
pose?
Where explore that oblivion that calms the
wrung breast,—
Since the lover finds sorrow wherever he goes,
And the world has for passion no pillow of
rest?
ANACREONTIC.
Y ou say, my love, the drifted snow
Around our ivy roof is flying ;
Why, what care I ? our bosoms glow,
And love still smiles, the storm defying !
Love shall no angry tempest fear,
Though frowning skies the hail may scatter
For still our guardian god is near,
Should howling blasts our hovel shatter.
Let icy bosoms freeze, wnne shrill
The north- wind blows around our dwelling
Our bosoms know the glowing thrill,
And still with melting joys are swelling !
The hollow gust that passes by,
We scarcely hear, no danger fearing ;
Yet love's most soft and murmur'd sigh
Shall speak in accents sweetly cheering.
Our faggot fire shall brighter blaze,
Our bed of down invite to slumber ;
And, 'till the morn shall spread its rays,
Time shall delicious moments number.
See the dull flame our taper shows,
How faint it burns ! — well, let it quiver;
The torch of love un wasted glows,
And still shall glow as bright as ever !
ANACREONTIC.
TO BACCHUS.
Is it the purple grape that throws
A lustre on the sparkling eye ?
Is it the nectar-draught that glows
Upon the lip of ruby dye ?
Is it the Bacchanalian set
That makes old Time his scythe forget ;
And gives the long, long joyous night,
To fill the breast with rich delight ?
Does wine expand the glowing soul?
Does friendship weave the magic vine,
And strengthen in the magic bowl ?
Does genius own its power divine ?
Does science smile, and wisdom find
The nectar cup expand the mind ?
And does the morn's returning light
Approve " the long, long joyous night ?"
If so, thou rosy god ! then take
My ardent vows, and give to mirth
The fleeting hour ; for thou can'st make
This mortal scene a heaven on earth !
Bring, bring the magic cup, and we
Will laugh and chant the catch and glee,
That all the long and joyous night
Our hearts shall glow with rich delight !
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M&pasmm.
223
But if thy purple stream should prove
The spell my finer sense to bind ;
If it can dim the flame of love,
Or chill the source that warms the mind ;
If reason, Bacchus, flies from thee,
I ne'er thy grovelling slave will be !
Nor will I share thy long, long night,
Which robs the soul of pure delight.
ANACREONTIC.
BaiNo me the flowing cup, dear boy,
And bring it full ; for I
Must taste the grateful liquid joy,
And bid dull sorrow fly J
Bring, bring the sparkling cup divine,
And let its beverage, sweet, be mine.
Not with the purple luscious stream
Its crystal sides must glow ;
Not with a feverish restless dream
Will withering anguish go ;
Bring me the cup of beverage pure,
Which shall the wounds of memory cure.
Give to the Bacchanalian throng
Phoenicia's perfumed glass,
While tipsy revelry and song
Greet tiiue, and bid him pass :
I ask the goblet— not of wine,
I ask the limpid draught divine !
Let the hot sun oeam give the fruit
A bleom of purple hue ;
Let the pale moon, in silvery suit,
Scatter nocturnal dew ;
I to the fountain clear will haste,
A healthful crystal cup to taste :
And now my feverish senses find
A calm and soothing rest ;
Sweet are the visions of my mind,
And tranquil is my breast :
For 'twas from Lethe's sacred stream
I drank farewell to passion's dream !
MORNING.
ANACREONTIC.
The sun now climbs the eastern hill ;
Awake, my love ! thine eyes unclose !
Hark! near our hut the limpid rill
Calls thee, soft tinkling, from repose !
The lark soars nigh above* thy cob* of rest
And on the plain the hunter's erica
Call echo from the misty skies :
Awake, my love ! those glances meet,
Which promise hours of blisses sweet !
The dew-pearls fall from every flower*-
See how they glitter o*w the heath I
While balmy breathings fill the bower
Where love still sighs with softer breath.
'Tis time to wake, my love ! the day
On sunny wing flies swift away t
Noon will thy velvet cheek annoy,
And evening's dews will damp 1 thy joy t
Then wake, my love ! and ope thine eyes,
As bright, as blue, as summer skies J
We'll hunt the rein-deer, chase the boar,
Thou shalt my Atalanta be !
And when our sportive toil is o'er,
Venus shall snatch a grace from thfeet
Young Bacchus shall bis ivy band
Receive from thy soft sneWjr hand ;
And Time his scythe aside shall fling)
While rosy rapture holds bis wing :
Then wake, my love ! the sun his beam'
Darts golden on the rapid stream.
Thy cheek shall bloom, as Hebe's fair ;
Thy lip shall steep'd in honey be ;
The graces shall entwine thy hair ;
The loves shall weave a zone for thee;
TUy feet shall bound across the waste,
Like Daphne's by Apollo chased ;
And every breeze that round thee blows,
Shall bring the fragrance of the rose.
Then come, my love ! thy hours employ
No more in dreams — but wake to joy.
I hear thy voice, I see those orbs
As blue, as brilliant as the day ;
Thy vermil lip the dew absorbs,
And scents thy breath like opening Ma/jf ;
Upon thy dimpled cheek the hud
Of summer's blushing buds I view ;
And on thy bosom's spotless glow,
The whiteness of the mountain snow :
Ah! close those eyes again— for see,
All nature is eclipsed by thee !
MALE FASHIONS
FOR 1799.
Crops like hedgehogs, high-crown 'd hats,
Whiskers like Jew Moses ;
Padded collars, thick cravats,
And cheeks as red as roses.
Ff,
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fSfi BIBS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
Waistcoat! stripp'd and gaudy ; ; Sometimes the eyes to cover ;
Sleeves thrice doubled thick with down, j A necklace that might be display'd
And straps to brace the body. By Otaheitean lover !
Short great-coats that reach the knees,
Boots like French postillion ;
Worn the G— race to please,
But laugh'd at by the million.
Square-toed shoes, with silken strings,
Pantaloons not fitting ;
Finger deck'd with wedding rings,
And small-clothes made of knitting.
Curricles so low, that they
Along the ground seem dragging ;
Hacks that weary half the day
In Rotten-row are fagging.
Bull-dogs grim, and boxers bold,
In noble trains attending ;
Science which is bought with gold,
And flatterers vice commending.
Hair cords, and plain rings, to show
Many a lady's favour,
Bought by every vaunting beau,
With mischievous endeavour.
Such is giddy Fashion's son !
Such a modern lover I
Oh ! would their reign had ne'er begun !
And may it soon be over !
FEMALE FASHIONS
FOR 1799.
A foka, i~ .u.y taper, fine ;
A heaa like naif-pint bason ;
Where golden cords, and bands entwine,
As rich as fleece of Jason.
A pair of shoulders strong and wide,
Like country clown enlisting ;
Bare arms long dangling by the side,
And shoes of ragged listing !
Cravats like towels, thick and broad,
Long tippets made of bear-skin,
Muffs that a Russian might applaud,
And rouge to spoil a fair skin.
^Ltf>ng petticoats to hide the feet,
Silk hose with clocks of scarlet ;
A load of perfume, sickening sweet,
Bought of Parisian varlet.
A bowl of straw to deck the head,
Like porringer unmeaning ;
A bunch of poppies flaming red,
With motley ribands streaming.
Bare ears on either side the head,
Like wood- wild savage satyr;
Tinted with deep vermillion red,
To shame the blush of nature.
Red elbows, gauzy gloves, that add
An icy covering merely ;
A wadded coat, the shape to pad,
Like Dutch women— or nearly.
Such is caprice ! but, lovely kind !
Oh ! let each mental feature
Proclaim the labour of the mind,
And leave your charms to nature.
ANACREONTIC
The day is past ! the sultry west,
Its golden curtain closes !
My mossy couch is gaily drest
With leaves of summer roses—
For thee?
The day is past ! the silvery moon
Will light the shadowy mountain soon ;
Then, come, my love, let soft delight
Give downy wings to fleeting night—
With me!
The day is past ! the rising dews
Spangle the meadows over ;
Where buds retijit their faded hues,
To greet the wandering lover-
Like thee !
The gossamer its silver thread
Winds round the glow-worm's twinkling head ;
The beetle sounds its drony horn,
And pearl-drops all the flowers adorn—
For me !
The purple vine its branches bends,
The bower of love confining ;
And there the rosy god attends,
An ivy wreath entwining —
For thee!
The golden goblets foaming round,
Seem with impatient streams to bound :
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STANZAS, fee.
*n
Haste, haste, my truant, let thy lip
The cup of heavenly nectar sip—
With me!
But let not low and base desire
Degrade thy bosom's feeling ;
Let love illume his sacred fire,
The light of truth revealing—
For thee!
Let vulgar common natures rove
In paths of sordid, sensual love ;
But know, the frozen, grovelling mind,
Nor friend, nor monitor, shall find-
In me I
STANZ AS
To a Friend who wished to have my Portrait,
E'en from the early days of youth,
I've bless'd the sacred voice of truth—
And candour is my pride :
I always speak what I believe ;
I know not if I can deceive—
Because I never tried.
I'm often serious, sometimes gay,
Can laugh the fleeting hours away,
Or weep for others' wo :
I'm proud ! this fault you cannot blame,
Nor does it tinge my cheek with shame :
Your friendship made me so.
I'm odd, eccentric, fond of ease,
Impatient, difficult to please ;
Ambition fires my breast :
Yet, not for wealth or titles vain ;
Let but the laurel deck my strain,
And dulness take the rest.
In temper quick, in friendship nice;
I doat on genius, shrink from vice,
And scorn the flatterer's art :
With penetrating skill can see,
Where, mask'd in sweet simplicity,
Lies bid the treacherous heart*
If once betray'd, I scarce forgive;
And though I pity all that live,
And mourn for every pain,
Yet never could I court the great,
Or worship fools, whate'er their state ;
For falsehood I disdain.
I'm jealous, for I fondly love ;
Ko feeble flame my heart can prove,
Caprice ne'er dimm'd its fires
I blush to see the human mind,
For nobler,, prouder claims design'd,
The slave of low desires.
Reserved in manner, where unknown;
A little obstinate, I own,
And apt to form opinion ;
Yet envy never broke my rest,
Nor could self-interest bow my breast
To foUy's base dominion.
No gaudy trappings I display,
Nor meanly plain, nor idly gay,
Yet sway'd by fashion's rule ;
For singularity, we find,
Betrays to every reasoning mind,
The pedant or the fool.
I fly the rich, the sordid crowd,
The little great, the vulgar proud,
The ignorant and base :
To sons of genius homage pay,
And own their sovereign right to sway-
Lords of the human race.
When coxcombs tell me I'm divine,
I plainly see the weak design,
And mock a tale so common :
Howe'er the flattering strain may flow,
My faults, alas ! too plainly show,
I'm but a mortal woman !
Such is my portrait— now believe
My pencil never can deceive,
And know me what I paint.
Taught in affliction's rigid school,
I act from principle, not rule,
No sinner, yet no saint.
THE
OLD BEGGAR.
I.
Do you see the old beggar who sits at yon gate,
With his beard sil ver'd over like snow ?
Though he smiles as he meets the keen arrows
of fate,
Still his bosom is wearied with wo.
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228
MRS. ROBINSON'S POEMS.
II.
Many years has he tat at the foot of the hill,
Many days seen the summer sun rise ;
And at evening the traveller passes him still,
W hile the shadows steal over the skies,
III.
In the bleak blast of winter he hobbles along
O'er the heath, at the dawning of day ;
And the dew-drops that freeze the rude thistles
among,
Are the stars that illumine his way.
IV,
How mild is his aspect, how modest his eye,
How meekly his soul bears each wrong !
How much dpes he speak by his eloquent sigh,
Though no accent is heard from his tongue.
Time was, when this beggar in martial trim
dight,
Was as bold as the chief of his throng ;
When, he march'd through the storms of the day
or the night,
And still smiled as he journey 'd along.
VI.
Then his form was athletic, his eyes' vivid
glance
Spoke the lustre of youth's glowing day !
And the village all mark'4, in the combat and
dance,
The brave younker still valiant as gay.
VII.
When the prise was proposed, how his footsteps
would bound,
While the maid of his heart led the throng,
While the ribands that circled the May-pole
around,
Waved the trophies of garlands among !
VIII.
But love o'er his bosom triumphantly reign'd,
Love taught him in secret to pine;
Love wasted his youth, yet he never complain'd,
For the silence of love— is divine !
IX.
The dulcet toned word, and the plaint of des-
pair,
Are no signs of the soul- wasting smart ;
Tis the pride of affection to cherish its care,
And to count the quick throbs of the heart.
Amidst the loud din of the battle he stood,
Like a lion, undaunted and strong;
But the tear of compassion was mingled with
blood,
When his sword was the first in the throng.
XL
When the bullet whizz'd by, and his arm bore
away,
Still he shrunk not, with anguish oppress'd ;
And when victory shouted the fate of the day,
Not a groan check' d the joy of his breast.
XII.
To his dear native shore the poor wanderer
hied;
But he came to complete his despair :
For the maid of his soul was that morning a
bride!
And a gay lordly rival was there !
XIII.
From that hour, o'er the world he has wander'd
forlorn ;
But still love his companion would go ;
And though deeply fond memory planted its
thorn,
Still he silently cherish 'd his wo.
XIV.
See him now, while with age and with sorrow
oppress'd,
He the gate opens slowly, and sighs !
See him drop the big tears on his wo-wither'd
breast,
The big tears that fall fast from his eyes !
XV,
See his habit all tatter'd, his shrivell'd cheek
pale;
See his locks, waving thin in the air ;
See his lip is half froze with the sharp cutting
gale,
And his head, o'er the temples, all bare !
XVI.
His eye-beam no longer in lustre displays
The warm sunshine that visits his breast ;
For deep sunk is its orbit, and darken'd its
rays,
And he sighs for the grave's silent rest.
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THE OLD BEGGAR.
2*9
XVII.
And his toicc is grown feeble, his accent is slow,
And be sees not the distant hill's side ;
And he hears not the breezes of morn as they
blow,
Nor the streams that soft murmuring glide.
XVIII.
To him all is silent, and mournful, and dim,
E'en the seasons pass dreary and slow ;
for affliction has placed its cold fetters on
him,
And his soul is enamour 'd of wo.
XIX.
See the tear, which, imploring, is fearful to roll,
Though in silence he bows as you stray ;
'Tis the eloquent silence which speaks to the
soul,
'Tis the star of his slow-setting day !
XX.
Perchance, ere the May-blossoms cheerfully
Ere the zephyrs of summer soft sigh ; [wave,
The sun-beams shall dance on the grass o'er his
grave,
And his journey be mark'd — to the sky.
THE END.
, GLASGOW :
ANDREW ft JOHN M. DUNCAN,
rrjnleroto the Unirersilj.
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CONTENTS.
Taim
Phxpack S
Tributary Poems 5
Petrareh to Laura 13
Ainsi va le Monde 16
Sight 19
Solitude 21
The Progress of Melancholy 28
The Cavern of Wo 24
Monody to the Memory of the late Queen
of France 26
Ode to the Muse . ^ y S2
— to Delia Crusca S3
*— to Genius 84
— to Reflection 35
— to Envy ib.
to Health . . . 36
■ to Vanity 37
— to Melancholy 38
— to Despair . 39
— - to the Snow-drop 40
— — to the Nightingale 41
■ second, to the Nightingale .... ib.
— to Beauty 42
— to Eloquence < 43
— to the Moon 'A
— to Meditation ib.
— to Valour 45
— — to the Memory of my Father ... 46
to Night 47
— — to Hope 49
— to Humanity ib.
— to the Harp of Louisa 50
— to the Muse of Poetry ..... 62
to the Blue-bell 54
Neglect ib.
Ode to my beloved Daughter .... ib.
to Winter 55
Horatian Ode 56
Odefiv the 18th of January, 1794 ... ib.
To Peace 57
Ode in imitation of Pope . i . . . . 58
To Apathy ib.
To the Sun-beam 59
Beauty's Grave ... * ib.
Lines to the Memory of a Young Gentleman 59
Ode inscribed to the Infant Son of S. T.
Coleridge, Esq 60
— to the Poet Coleridge 61
Lines to the Rev. J. Whitehouse ... 62 .
Ode to the Dutchess of Devonshire . . 63
Lines inscribed to P. de Loutherbourg, >. '■
Esq. R. A ib/ ;
Elegy to the Memory of Garrick ... 64
Monody to the Memory of Chatterton . 65 A '^
Elegy to the Memory of Werter ... 66 '
The Sicilian Lover, a dramatic Poem . . 68 v
The Savage of Aveyron ...... 69
Sir Raymond of the Castle. A Tale . . 90
Donald and Mary 92
Llwhen and Gwynetb. Written in the
year 1782 93
Anselmo, the Hermit of the Alps ... 94
Bosworth Field 96
The Doublet of Grey 93
The Foster Child. In imitation of Spenser 99
The Lady of the Black Tower. Part L 105
. Part II. 107
All Alone 10S
Old Barnard. A Monkish Tale. . . . 10S
The Haunted Beach 110
The Trumpeter. An old English Tale . Ill
The Poor Singing Dame US
The Widow's Home »»-^7
Mrs Gurton's Cat. A domestic Tale . 114* '^
The Lascar. Parti 116
Part II 117
The Shepherd's Dog 119
Deborah's Parrot. A village Tale . . 120
The Murdered Maid 122^
The Negro Girl 124 '
The Deserted Cottage 125
To an Infant sleeping 126
'A Madrigal ib.
To the Wanderer 127 *
Stanzas to Flora ib.-*''
Stanzas to Love Jb.
Love and Reason 128
To a Friend n, %
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Life .
To
To a False
Paom
128
129
ib.
134
Friend. In imitation of
Sappbo ib.
Stanzas to a Friend 190
Stanzas ib.
Lines written on the Sea Coast .... 131
To Pope's Oak ib.
-/- Stanzas to the Rose 132
^ To the Myrtle ib.
Stanzas 133
Inscribed to Maria, my beloved Daughter, ib.
Lines to him who will understand them .
Pastoral Stanzas. Written at Fifteen years
- of Age
^ - Written on seeing a Rose still blooming at
a Cottage Door on Egham Hill, the
25th of October, 1800 ib.
Lines written by the Side of a River . . 135
Morning . ib.
Stanzas to Time 136
The Reply to Time . . ib.
To Simplicity 137
To Absence ib.
To Cesario 13S
Stanzas . ib.
y Written on a faded Bouquet ib.
Y To the Aspin Tree 138
Pity's Tear . ib.
Stanzas from the Natural Daughter . . 140
The Sorrows of Memory ib.
To the Mole 141
To the WUd Brook ib.
Stanzas 142
■ from the Natural Daughter . ". ib.
— — — on May 1799 . . . . . . . 143
t ' supposed to be written near a
Tree, over the Grave of an Officer,
who was killed at Lincelles, in Flan-
ders, in August 1793
Lines to Maria, my beloved Daughter,
written on her Birth-day, Oct. 18,
1793
, , The Pilgrim's Farewell. From the Ro-
mance of Vacenza ib.
Stanzas, written on the 14th of February,'
to my once dear Valentine .... 145
Stanzas inscribed to a once dear Friend,
when confined by severe Indisposition,
in March 1793 ib.
- To the Same, on his recovering from a long
Indisposition, in May 1793 .... 146
The Adieu to Fancy, inscribed to the Same ib.
The Moralist . , 147
> Stanzas to my beloved Daughter, on seeing
her gather some Pensees ib.
Stanzas written after successive Nights of
Melancholy Dreams ...... ib.
The Maniac 146
CONTENTS. 231
Marie Antoinette's Lamentation in her
Prison of the Temple. Written in
March 1793 149
A Fragment. Supposed to be written near
the Temple, at Paris, on the Night
before the Execution of Louis XVI. . 150
Invocation to Oberon. Written on the /»/. '
Recovery of my Daughter from In-
oculation .......... 151
To Julius 152
Stanzas. Written between Dover and
Calais, in July 1798 153
Stanzas to him who said, " What is
Love?" .......... 154
The Recantation. To Love ib.
The Fugitive .155
The Birth-day 156
The Fisherman ......... ib.
Stanzas ............ 157
The Worst of Ills ib.
The Gamester 158
My Native Home ib.
The Summer Day ib.
The Wintry Day 159
Lines written on a Sick Bed, 1797 ... ib-
On leaving the Country for the Winter -
Season, 1799 ib.
Written at Brighton 160
Stanzas to Rest ib.
A Wish ib.
Farewell to Glenowen 161
To Spring. Written after a Winter of III
Health in the Year 1800 ..... ib. >
The Exile 162
Stanzas ib.
Reflections 1G3
The Progress of Liberty. Book I. . . 164 -• '-'
Book II. . . 1717
A 'Monody to the Memory of Sir Joshua
Reynolds ......... 177
Sappho and Phaon; in a Series of Legiti-' """*
mate Sonnets 180
Sonnet. To Amicus 188
. To Independence ib.
ib.
. To my beloved Daughter . . . ib.
ib.
. The Peasant ....... 189
. To Ingratitude ib.
. To Evening ib.
The Mariner ib.
. To Philanthropy 190
— . Written among the Ruins of an
ancient Castle in Germany,
in the Year 1786 . . .
— Laura to Petrarch . . . ,
The Tear
ib.
144
. . ib.
, . ib.
. . ib.
. . . ib.
1S1
To Liberty ib.
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232
CONTENTS.^
Sonnet t .191
■ Writteh at Sea, Sept* 1, 1798 . ib.
• . To Amicus * * % . . . ib.
Stanzas 190
Cupid Sleeping ib.
Lines from «« Angelica" 193
To him who lamented seeing a beautiful
Woman weep . . . lb.
The Admonition. After the Manner of
the ancient Poets * ...... 104
The Way to keep him ib.
Impromptu 195
To Arabella. After the Manner of the
English Poets ib.
Taste and Fashion ib.
Impromptu on **** ....... ib.
Fairy Rhymes. Oberon's Invitation to
Titania- ib.
Titania's Answer to Oberon ..... 196
The Fortune-Teller, A Gypsy Tale . . ib.
Poor Marguerite 198
The Confessor A Sanctified Tale . . 199
Edmund's Wedding 200
The Alien Boy . .208
The Granny Grey . 208
Golfre. A Gothic Swiss Tale.
Parti.
Part II.
Part III.
Part IV.
Part V. .
204
205
206
207
209
210
Jasper . . . -
London's Summer Morning 212
Lines ib.
Lesbra and her Lover ib.
To Jealousy 218
To a Friend who asked the Author's
Opinion of a Kiss ib.
A Reflection ib.
The Poet's Garret 214
To John Taylor, Esq ib.
Lines sent by Peter Pindar to Mrs. Rob-
inson, borrowing her Lap-dog to paint
his Likeness
The Answer, by Mrs. Robinson . • •
To Leonardo
The Snake and the Linnet. A Fable
Ode. The Eagle and the Flock of Geese
Lines . written oa a Day of Public Re-
joicing ...........
The Swan
Lines on hearing a Gentleman declare,
that no Women were so handsome as
the English . . 4
Stanzas written for "The Shrine of
Bertha"
Stanzas
Stanzas from " The Shrine of Bertha" .
The Miser
Stanzas presented with a Gold Chain Ring
to a once dear Friend
A Fragment ..........
To the May Fly
January, 1795 -
Impromptu sent to a Friend who had left
his Gloves, by mistake, at the Author's
House on the preceding Evening . .
Madrigal ....... ....
Anacreontic. To Cupid ......
Stanzas
Anacreontic •
Anacreontic. To Bacchus . . • • .
Anacreontic
Morning. Anacreontic
Male Fashions for 1799 ......
Female Fashions for 1799
Anacreontic
Stanzas to a Friend who wished to have
my Portrait
The Old Beggar «...
215
ib.
ib.
216
ib.
218
ib.
ib.
219
IK
229
221
ib.
ib.
ib. v
2287
ib.
22S
ib.
224
ib.
ib.
225>
ib.
ib.">
226 ^
in.
227
ib.
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