Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson

by Mary Robinson

  And with it all my rending woes,

  While in its place majestic rose

  The Angel TRUTH! — her stedfast mien

  Bespoke the conscious breast serene;

  Her eye more radiant than the day

  Beam’d with persuasion’s temper’d ray;

  Sweet was her voice, and while she sung

  Myriads of Seraphs hover’d round,

  Eager to iterate the sound,

  That on her heav’n-taught accents hung.

  Wond’ring I gaz’d! my throbbing breast,

  Celestial energies confest;

  Transports, before unfelt, unknown,

  Throng’d round my bosom’s tremb’ling throne,

  While ev’ry nerve with rapture strange,

  Seem’d to partake the blissful change.

  Now with unmov’d and dauntless Eye,

  I mark thy winged arrows fly;

  No more thy baneful spells shall bind

  The purer passions of my mind;

  No more, false Love, shall jealous fears

  Inflame my check with scalding tears;

  Or shake my vanquish’d sense, or rend

  My aching heart with poignant throes,

  Or with tumultuous fevers blend,

  Self-wounding, visionary woes.

  No more I’ll waste the midnight hour

  In expectation’s silent bow’r;

  And musing o’er thy transcripts dear,

  Efface their sorrows with a tear.

  No more with timid fondness wait

  Till morn unfolds her glitt’ring gate,

  When thy lov’d song’s seraphic sound,

  Wou’d on my quiv’ring nerves rebound

  With proud delight; — no more thy blush

  Shall o’er my cheek unbidden rush,

  And scorning ev’ry strong controul,

  Unveil the tumults of my soul.

  No more when in retirement blest,

  Shalt thou obtrude upon my rest;

  And tho’ encircled with delight,

  Absorb my sense, obscure my sight,

  Give to my eye the vacant glance,

  The mien that marks the mental trance;

  The fault’ring tone — the sudden start,

  The trembling hand, the bursting heart;

  The devious step, that strolls along

  Unmindful of the gazing throng;

  The feign’d indiff’rence prone to chide;

  That blazons — what it seeks to hide.

  Nor do I dread thy vengeful wiles,

  Thy soothing voice, thy winning smiles,

  Thy trick’ling tear, thy mien forlorn,

  Thy pray’r, thy sighs, thy oaths I scorn;

  No more on ME thy arrows show’r,

  Capricious Love — I BRAVE THY POW’R.

  STANZAS TO FLORA.

  LET OTHERS wreaths of ROSES twine

  With scented leaves of EGLANTINE;

  Enamell’d buds and gaudy flow’rs,

  The pride of FLORA’S painted bow’rs;

  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 some vale,

  Where, shelter’d from the fickle gale,

  In modest garb, amidst the gloom,

  The constant MYRTLE sheds perfume;

  And hid secure from prying eyes,

  In spotless beauty BLOOMS and DIES.

  And should its velvet leaves dispense

  No pow’rful odours to the sense;

  Should no proud tints of gaudy hue,

  With dazz’ling 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.

  “If haply, these wild simple flowers

  “To thee some lov’d Image convey;

  “Ah! me, then the neighbouring bowers

  “Yield none half so lovely as they.”

  CESARIO TO LAURA.

  ORACLE, Jan. 18,

  1790.

  TO CESARIO.

  CESARIO, thy Lyre’s dulcet measure,

  So sweetly, so tenderly flows;

  That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,

  Thy music would soften its woes.

  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 Mis’ry sits brooding,

  Repels the soft touch of repose;

  Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,

  The balm of mild comfort bestows.

  There is luxury oft in declining,

  What pity’s kind motives impart;

  And to bear hapless fate, unrepining,

  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 WOE.

  “What power like Laura’s scornful eye

  “Awakes the ruthless rage of pain?

  “What terror bursting from the sky,

  “Like Love distracts the tortur’d brain?”

  IGNOTUS * TO LAURA.

  ORACLE, June 25,

  1790.

  ECHO TO HIM WHO COMPLAINS.

  O FLY thee from the shades of night,

  Where the loud tempests yelling rise;

  Where horrror wings her sullen flight

  Beneath the bleak and lurid skies.

  As the pale light’ning swiftly gleams

  O’er the scorch’d wood, thy well-known form

  More radiant than an angel seems,

  Contending with the ruthless storm.

  I see the scowling witch, DESPAIR

  Drink the big tear that scalds thy cheek;

  While thro’ the dark and turbid air,

  The screams of haggard ENVY break.

  From the cold mountain’s flinty steep,

  I hear the dashing waters roar;

  Ah! turn thee, turn thee, cease to weep,

  Thou hast no reason to deplore.

  See fell DESPAIR expiring fall,

  See ENVY from thy glances start;

  No more shall howling blasts appall,

  Or with’ring grief corrode thy heart.

  See FRIENDSHIP from her azure eye

  Drops the fond balm for ev’ry pain

  She comes, the offspring of the sky,

  “TO RAZE THE TROUBLES OF THE brain.”

  * Della Crusca.

  STANZAS.

  WHEN fragrant gales and summer show’rs

  Call’d forth the sweetly scented flow’rs;

  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 show’r and bloom’d a-new;

  O then my joyful heart did say,

  “Sure this is Nature’s Holy-day!”

  But when the yellow leaf did fade,

  And every gentle flow’r decay’d;

  When whistling winds, and drenching rain,

  Swept with rude force the naked plain;<
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  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.”

  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 move,

  False Flatt’ry’s soothing strains impart

  The warmest Friendship — fondest Love;

  But when capricious FORTUNE flies,

  Then FRIENDSHIP fades; — and PASSION dies.

  LINES WRITTEN ON THE SEA-COAST.

  SWIFT o’er the bounding deep the VESSEL glides,

  Its streamers flutt’ring in the summer gales,

  The lofty mast the breezy air derides,

  As gaily o’er the glitt’ring surf she sails.

  Now beats each gallant heart with 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

  Mocks the poor pilot’s skill, and braves his sighs;

  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 descend.

  The lab’ring 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

  Chills his sad breast, methinks I see him weep,

  I hear his fearful groan his mutter’d pray’r,

  O, cease to mourn, behold the yawning deep

  Where soon thy weary soul shall mock Despair,

  Yes, soon thy aching heart shall rest in peace,

  For in the arms of Death all human sorrows cease.

  “Enough for me, that to the list’ning swains

  “First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.”

  POPE.

  STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER AN OAK IN WINDSOR FOREST, BEARING THE FOLLOWING INSCRIPTION.

  “HERE POPE FIRST SUNG!” O, hallow’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 wond’rous art,

  Sublimely stealing thro’ his heart

  Did Fancy’s proudest themes inspire:

  ’Twas HERE he wisely learnt to smile

  At empty praise, and courtly guile.

  Retir’d from flatt’ring, specious arts.

  From fawning sycophants of state,

  From knaves, with ravag’d wealth elate,

  And little SLAVES with TYRANT Hearts;

  In conscious freedom nobly proud,

  He scorn’d the envious, grov’ling crowd.

  Tho’ splendid DOMES around them rise,

  And pompous TITLES lull to rest

  Each strugg’ling Virtue in the breast,

  ‘Till POW’R 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?

  When scarce the Sun’s warm beams pervade

  The hoary HERMIT’S dreary cell?

  Ah! no — THERE, Superstition blind,

  With torpid languor chills the mind.

  Or, does she seek Life’s busy scene,

  Ah! no, the sordid, mean, and proud,

  The little, trifling, flutt’ring crowd,

  Can never taste her bliss serene;

  She flies from Fashion’s tinsel toys,

  Nor courts her smile, nor shares her joys.

  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 controul,

  Nor vice allures, nor snares betray;

  HERE from each trivial hope remov’d,

  Our BARD first sought the MUSE he lov’d.

  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;

  Still shall thy verdant branches be

  The bow’r of wond’rous minstrelsy.

  When glow-worms light their little fires,

  The am’rous 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 quiv’ring 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, thro’ the forest dark and drear,

  Full oft, as ancient stories say,

  Old HERNE THE HUNTER † loves to stray,

  While village damsels quake with fear;

  Nor sprite or spectre, shall invade

  The still repose that marks THY shade.

  BLEST OAK! thy mossy trunk shall be

  As lasting as the LAUREL’S bloom

  That deck’s immortal VIRGIL’S tomb,

  And fam’d as SHAKSPERE’S hallow’d Tree;

  For every grateful MUSE shall twine

  A votive Wreath to deck THY SHRINE.

  † Shakspere’s Merry Wives of Windsor.

  STANZAS TO THE ROSE.

  SWEET PICTURE of Life’s chequer’d hour!

  Ah, wherefore droop thy blushing head?

  Tell me, oh tell me, hap’less flow’r,

  Is it because thy charms are fled?

  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 wand’rer meets;

  And when he sees thy charms depart,

  He feels thy thorn within
his heart.

  When Morn’s bright torch illum’d the sky,

  Vainly thy flaunting buds display’d

  Enamell’d leaves of crimson die,

  Ill-fated blossoms doom’d to fade;

  So ’tis with BEAUTY, hapless flow’r,

  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,

  Bath’d with a tear from PITY’S eye;

  There shall thy balmy sweets impart

  An essence grateful to my heart.

  Thus SYMPATHY, with lenient pow’r,

  Shall bid thy fading charms bestow

  Soft odours for life’s happy hour,

  Kind, healing balsam for its woe!

  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 constant 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 wand’ring 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.

  Like THEE it braves the wintry wind,

  And mocks the storm’s fierce pow’r,

  Tho’ from its HOPES the blast unkind,

  Has torn each promis’d flow’r.

  Tho’ round its fibres barb’rous fate

  Has twin’d an icy spell;

  Still in its central fires elate,

  The purest passions dwell.

  When LIFE’S disast’rous scene is fled,

  This humble boon I crave;

  Oh! bind your branches round my head,

  AND BLOSSOM ON MY GRAVE.

  STANZAS INSCRIBED TO LADY WILLIAM RUSSELL.

  NATURE, to prove her heav’n-taught pow’r,

  That gems the earth, and paints the flow’r;

  That bids the soft enchanting note

  Steal from the LINNET’S downy throat;

  That from young MAY’S ambrosial wings,