Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson

by Mary Robinson

  ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

  SORC’RESS of the Cave profound!

  Hence, with thy pale, and meagre train,

  Nor dare my roseate bow’r profane,

  Where light-heel’d mirth despotic reigns,

  Slightly bound in feath’ry chains,

  And scatt’ring blisses round.

  Hence, to thy native Chaos — where

  Nurs’d by thy haggard Dam, DESPAIR,

  Shackled by thy numbing spell,

  Mis’ry’s pallid children dwell;

  Where, brooding o’er thy fatal charms,

  FRENZY rolls the vacant eye;

  Where hopeless LOVE, with folded arms,

  Drops the tear, and heaves the sigh;

  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 mould’ring 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 quiv’ring light:

  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 POW’R! whose touch magnetic leads

  O’er enchanted spangled meads,

  Where by the glow-worm’s twinkling ray,

  Aëry Spirits lightly play;

  Where around some Haunted Tow’r,

  Boding Ravens wing their flight,

  Viewless, in the gloom of Night,

  Warning oft the luckless hour;

  Or, beside the Murd’rer’s bed,

  From thy dark, and morbid wing,

  O’er his fev’rish, burning head,

  Drops of conscious auguish 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 pow’r,

  Shrinks from the glare of Mirth, and hails the MURKY HOUR.

  O, say what FIEND first gave thee birth,

  In what fell Desart, 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 barb’rous 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 serene.

  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 low’ring Eye,

  The hollow Cheek, the smother’d Sigh,

  When thy usurping fangs assail,

  The sacred Bonds of Friendship fail.

  Meek-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 POW’R SUPREME, with pitying eye,

  Looks on the erring Child of Misery;

  MERCY arrests the wing of Time;

  To expiate the wretch’s crime;

  Insulted HEAV’N consign’d thy brand

  To the first Murd’rer’s crimson hand.

  Swift o’er the earth the Monster flew,

  And round th’ ensanguin’d Poisons threw,

  By CONSCIENCE goaded — driven by FEAR,

  Till the meek Cherub HOPE subdued his fell career.

  Thy Reign is past, when erst the brave

  Imbib’d contagion o’er the midnight lamp,

  Close pent in loathsome cells, where poisons damp

  Hung round the confines of a Living Grave; *

  Where no glimm’ring ray illum’d

  The flinty walls, where pond’rous 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 woe-worn suff’rer gasping lay,

  While by his side in proud array

  Stalk’d the HUGE FIEND, DESPOTIC POW’R.

  There REASON clos’d her radiant eye,

  And fainting HOPE retir’d to die,

  Truth shrunk appall’d,

  In spells of icy Apathy enthrall’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,

  Rock Thee on thy Bed of Stone;

  Or, in gelid caverns pent,

  Listen to the sullen moan

  Of subterranean winds; — or glut thy sight

  Where stupendous mountains rent

  Hurl their vast fragments from their dizzy height.

  At Thy approach the rifted Pine

  Shall o’er the shatter’d Rock incline,

  Whose trembling brow, with wild weeds drest,

  Frowns on the tawny EAGLE’s nest;

  THERE enjoy the ‘witching hour,

  And freeze in Frenzy’s dire conceit,

  Or seek the Screech-owl’s lone retreat,

  On the bleak rampart of some nodding Tow’r.

  In some forest long and drear,

  Tempt the fierce BANDITTI’s rage,

  War with famish’d Tygers wage,

  And mock the taunts of Fear.

  When across the yawning deep,

  The Demons of the Tempest sweep,

  Or deaf’ning Thunders bursting cast

  Their red bolts on the shivering mast,

  While fix’d below the sea-boy stands,

  As threat’ning 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 mad’ning Anguish feeds DESPAIR.

  When o’er the couch of pale Disease

  The MOTHER bends, with tearful eye,

  And trembles, lest her quiv’ring sigh,

  Should wake the darling of her breast,

  Now, by the taper’s feeb
le 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 fix’d eye the big drops roll,

  Her proud Affliction mocks controul,

  And riots in DESPAIR,

  Such are thy haunts, malignant Pow’r,

  There all thy murd’rous Poisons pour;

  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 hours, BLESS’D POETRY, TO THEE.

  * The Bastile

  ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

  SWEET BIRD OF SORROW! — why complain

  In such soft melody of Song,

  That ECHO, am’rous of thy Strain,

  The ling’ring cadence doth prolong?

  Ah! tell me, tell me, why,

  Thy dulcet Notes ascend the sky.

  Or on the filmy vapours glide

  Along the misty moutain’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

  Evap’rates on the breezy air,

  Or that the plaintive Song of Care

  Steals from THY Widow’d 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 deep gloom along the glade:

  Led by its sound, I’ve wander’d far,

  Till crimson evening’s flaming Star

  On Heav’n’s vast dome refulgent hung,

  And round ethereal vapours flung;

  And oft I’ve sought th’HYGEIAN MAID,

  In rosy dimply smiles array’d,

  Till forc’d 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 hop’d, by mingling with the gay,

  To snatch the veil of Grief away;

  To break Affliction’s pond’rous 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 danc’d along,

  Oft have I shunn’d the blithsome throng,

  To hide th’involuntary tear,

  For e’en where rapt’rous transports glow,

  From the full Heart the conscious tear will flow,

  When to my downy couch remov’d,

  FANCY recall’d my wearied mind

  To scenes of FRIENDSHIP left behind,

  Scenes still regretted, still belov’d!

  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 fev’rish lip imperfect murmurs died.

  Restless and sad — I sought once more

  A calm retreat on BRITAIN’s shore;

  Deceitful HOPE, e’en there I found

  That soothing FRIENDSHIP’s specious name

  Was but a short-liv’d 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 bow’rs,

  When HAPPY Mortals seek repose,

  By Night’s pale lamp we’ll chaunt our woes,

  And, as her chilling tears diffuse

  O’er the white thorn their silv’ry dews,

  I’ll with the lucid boughts entwine

  A weeping Wreath, which round my Head

  Shall by the waning Cresent shine,

  And light us to our leafy bed, —

  But ah! nor leafy beds nor bow’rs

  Fring’d with soft MAY’s enamell’d flow’rs,

  Nor pearly leaves, nor Cynthia’s beams,

  Nor smiling Pleasure’s shad’wy 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 strain

  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 flow’r

  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 perfum’d 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 ting’d 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 glitt’ring gold,

  While from the blushes of the rose

  A tide of musky essence flows,

  And o’er the odour-breathing flow’rs

  The woodlands shed their diamond show’rs,

  When from the scented hawthorn bud

  The BLACKBIRD sips the lucid flood,

  While oft the twitt’ring THRUSH essays

  To emulate the LINNET’S lays;

  While the poiz’d 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 vale,

  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 flow’ret greets her with a tear

  To sympathetic sorrow dear;

  And when in black obtrusive clouds

  The chilly MOON 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 glimm’ring lamp I seek.

  Or climb the craggy cli
ff to gaze

  On some bright planet’s azure blaze,

  And o’er the dizzy height inclin’d

  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 sits with aëry 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 boist’rous breath

  Sweeps the blue hill and desart heath,

  When naked trees their white tops wave

  O’er many a famish’d REDBREAST’S grave,

  When many a clay-built cot lays low

  Beneath the growing hills of snow,

  Soon as the SHEPHERD’s silv’ry head

  Peeps from his tottering straw-roof’d shed,

  To hail the glimm’ring 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’d round.

  If in some bush o’erspread with snow

  He hears thy moaning wail of woe,

  A flush of warmth his cheek o’erspreads,

  With anxious timid care he treads,

  And when his cautious hands infold

  Thy little breast benumb’d 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 fare,

  “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 poorest swain inspire

  And while he fans his scanty fire,

  When o’er the plain rough Winter pours

  Nocturnal blasts, and whelming show’rs,

  Canst thro’ his little mansion fling

  The rapt’rous melodies of spring.

  To THEE with eager gaze I turn,

  Blest solace of the aching breast;

  Each gaudy, glitt’ring scene I spurn,

  And sigh for solitude and rest,

  For art thou not, blest warbler, say,

  My mind’s best balm, my bosom’s friend?

  Didst thou not trill thy softest lay,

  And with thy woes my sorrows blend?