The ROSE, that only shelter’d ME,
Has pour’d a load of sweets on THEE;
Of merit we have both our share,
Heav’n gave thee ART, and made me FAIR;
And tho’ thy cunning can despise
The humble worth of harmless flies;
Remember, envious, busy thing,
Thy honey’d form conceals a sting;
Enjoy thy garden, while I rove
The sunny hill, the woodbine grove,
And far remov’d from care and THEE,
Embrace my humble destiny;
While in some lone sequester’d bow’r,
I’ll live content beyond thy pow’r;
For where ILL-NATURE holds her reign
TASTE, WORTH, and BEAUTY, plead in vain;
E’en GENIUS must to PRIDE submit
When ENVY wings the shaft of WIT.
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 pow’r thy wings can bind,
All earthly pleasures fly with THEE;
Inconstant as the wav’ring 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 aëry form I’ve seen,
On DOWNY pinions glide away.
But when, perplex’d with pain or care,
My couch with THORNS was scatter’d 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, pond’rous 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 e’er 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 POW’R.
CANZONET.
SLOW the limpid currents twining,
Brawl along the lonely dell,
‘Till in one wild stream combining,
Nought its rapid course can quell;
So at first LOVE’S poisons stealing,
Round the heart unheeded play,
While we hope our pangs concealing,
Vainly hope to check his sway.
If amidst the glassy river
Aught impedes its placid course,
Ah! it glides more swift than ever,
While opposing gives it force;
So when HOPE and PASSION blending,
Warm the feeble trembling frame;
REASON sickens by contending,
Fanning only feeds the flame.
“Can not my favouring power prolong
“The lovely lesson of thy song;
“Can not 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.
THE REPLY TO TIME.
O TIME, forgive the mournful song
That on thy pinions stole along,
When the rude hand of pain severe
Chas’d down my cheek the burning tear;
When sorrow chill’d each warm desire
That kindles FANCY’S lambent fire;
When HOPE, by fost’ring FRIENDSHIP rear’d,
A phantom of the brain appear’d;
Forgive the song, devoid of art,
That stole spontaneous from my heart;
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! should’st 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 chill’d bosom deigns to shine:
While doom’d to mark the vapid day
In tasteless languor waste away:
Still, still, my sad and plaintive rhyme
Must blame the ruthless pow’r of TIME.
Each infant flow’r 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 cataract’s 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 controul!
The loftiest fabric rear’d to fame;
The sculptur’d 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 flame that warms th’ empassion’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 POW’R!
STANZAS.
WHY, if perchance thy gaze I meet,
Glows my wan cheek with crimson die?
Why do my languid pulses beat
With quick’ning throbs when thou art nigh?
Why does my fault’ring language fail;
My trembling form its strength forego;
Why does my quiv’ring lip turn pale,
Chill’d by the touch of secret woe?
Say, when thy tuneful voice I hear,
Why does my panting bosom swell?
Why steals the fond, unbidden tear,
The soul’s dire agony to tell?
Why, when my feeble hand you press,
And whisper Passion’s transports sweet
Why do I shun the dear 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 woe,
His dearest gift is short-liv’d joy.
He soars aloft on LOVER’S sighs;
In breaking HEARTS his temple rears;
With barb’rous pow’r he BLINDS our EYES,
Then laughing MOCKS OUR FALLING TEARS.
The two following little Poems were written at a very early period of the Author’s life.
PASTORAL STANZAS.
WHEN AURORA’S soft blushes o’erspread the blue hill,
And the mist dies away at the glances of morn;
When the birds join the music that floats on the rill,
And the beauties of spring the young woodlands adorn.
To breathe the pure air and enliven my soul,
I bound from my cottage exulting and gay;
No care to molest me, no pow’r to controul,
I sport with my lambkins, as thoughtless as 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 slaughter’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,
Whose high gilded turrets peep over the trees;
I pity its greatness and mournfully say,
Can mortals delight in such trifles as these!
Can a pillow of down sooth the woe-stricken mind,
Can the sweets of Arabia calm sickness and pain;
Can fetters of gold Love’s true votaries bind,
Or the gems of Peru Time’s light pinions restrain?
Can those limbs which bow down beneath sorrow and age,
From the floss of the silk-worm fresh vigour receive;
Can the pomp of the proud, death’s grim tyrant assuage,
Can it teach you to die, or instruct you to live?
Ah, no! then sweet PEACE, lovely offspring of Heav’n,
Come dwell in my cottage, thy handmaid I’ll be;
Thus my youth shall pass on, unmolested and even,
And the winter of age be enliven’d by thee!
PASTORAL STANZAS.
BY the side of a mountain, o’er-shadow’d with trees,
With thick clusters of vine intermingled and wove;
I behold my thatch’d cottage, dear mansion of ease,
The seat of contentment, of friendship, and love!
Each morn when I open the latch of my door,
My heart throbs with rapture to hear the birds sing;
And at night, when the dance in the village is o’er,
On my pillow I strew the fresh roses of spring.
When I hide in the forest from noon’s scorching beam,
While the torrent’s deep murmurs re-echoing sound;
When the herds quit their pasture to quaff the clear stream,
And the flocks in the vale lie extended around:
I muse, but my thoughts are contented and free,
I regret not the splendours of riches and pride;
The delights of retirement are dearer to me
Than the proudest appendage to greatness ally’d.
I sing, and my song is the carol of joy;
My cheek glows with health, like the wild rose in bloom;
I dance; yet forget not tho’ blithesome and gay,
That I measure the footsteps which lead to the tomb.
Contented to live — yet not fearful to die,
With a conscience unspotted I pass thro’ life’s scene;
On the wings of delight every moment shall fly,
And the end of my days be resign’d and serene.
THE ORIGIN OF CUPID.
A FABLE.
ON IDA’S mount the gods were met,
A sportive, jolly, noisy set,
Resolving nectar bowls to quaff,
To revel, riot, sing and laugh;
For gods will frolic now and then,
And err like earth-born sons of men.
From early dawn till setting day
The jocund hours had roll’d away,
When midst the group Apollo rose
This serious question to propose,
Who should succeed upon the throne —
When Jupiter their king was gone?
MARS first his best excuses made,
War his delight and ancient trade;
Old NEPTUNE vow’d at such an age,
In state affairs he’d not engage:
BACCHUS preferr’d a draught of nectar
To any monarch’s crown and sceptre.
At length fatigu’d with idle prating,
With contradiction and debating;
It was propos’d, and straight agreed,
A new-form’d monarch should succeed,
And each, to make the plan expedient,
Should of offer some DIVINE ingredient.
MARS offer’d courage — train’d to arms;
VENUS her soft bewitching charms:
HERCULES strength; proud JUNO grace;
MOMUS his laughing, dimpled face;
APOLLO and the SISTERS NINE,
Gave polish’d manners, wit divine!
At length the infant was completed,
And on a throne of ether seated;
His beauty aw’d the gazing crowd;
Before his feet each veteran bow’d;
Each hop’d his gentle smiles to prove,
And hail’d the little monarch LOVE.
When lo, to check the mirthful hour,
Old TIME appear’d, with aspect sour;
His hoary locks like silver thread
Upon his stooping shoulders spread;
“Vain are your wishes” cried the sage;
“In useless toil you now engage,
Think ye, with all this vain parade,
To form a god without MY aid?
In all debates am I alone,
For age, and wise experience known;
Presumptuous wretches, you shall prove,
That TIME has pow’r TO CONQUER LOVE!
No settled bliss the Boy shall taste,
My pinions to his shoulders plac’d
Shall bear him to the world below;
Each change of fortune there to know;
While in each state the wretch shall be
A SUBJECT VASSAL STILL TO ME.”
SONNET INSCRIBED TO HER GRACE THE DUTCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.
‘TIS NOT thy flowing hair of orient gold,
Nor those bright eyes, like sapphire gems that glow;
Nor cheek of blushing rose, nor breast of snow,
The varying passions of the heart could hold:
Those locks, too soon, shall own a silv’ry ray,
Those radiant orbs their magic fires forego;
Insatiate TIME shall steal those tints away,
Warp thy fine form, and bend thy beauties low:
But the rare wonders of thy polish’d MIND
Shall mock the empty menace of decay;
The GEM, that in thy SPOTLESS BREAST enshrin’d,
Glows with the light of intellectual ray;
Shall, like the Brilliant, scorn each borrow’d aid,
And deck’d with native lustre NEVER FADE!
SONNET TO AMICUS. †
WHOE’ER thou art, whose soul-enchanting song
Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe;
To whom the sounds of melody belong,
Sounds, that can more than human bliss bestow;
Like the wak’d God of day, whose rays pervade
The spangled veil of night, and fling their fires
O’er the cold bosom of the em’rald glade,
While bath’d in tears, the virgin orb retires.
Thy glowing verse illumes my path of care,
And warms each torpid fibre of my heart,
And tho’ my MUSE exults thy smiles to share,
She feels the force of thy superior art;
YET, shall she proudly own her timid lays,
The cherish’d darlings of thy ENVIED PRAISE.
† See the beautiful Sonnet in the Morning Herald, Oct. 27, 1790.
SONNET TO THE MEMORY OF MISS MARIA LINLEY.
So bends beneath the storm yon balmy flow’r,
Whose spicy blossoms once perfum’d the gale;
So press’d with tears reclines yon lily pale,
Obedient to the rude and beating show’r.
Still is the LARK, that hov’ring o’er yon spray,
With jocund carol usher’d in the morn;
And mute the NI
GHTINGALE, whose tender lay
Melted the feeling mind with sounds forlorn:
More sweet, MARIA, was thy plaintive strain!
That strain is o’er; but mem’ry ne’er shall fade,
When erst it cheer’d grey twilight’s dreary shade,
And charm’d the sorrow-stricken soul from pain;
STILL, STILL, melodious maid, thy dulcet song
Shall breathe, immortal, on an ANGEL’S TONGUE!
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 drop’d a tear of SYMPATHY refin’d.
When humming bees, hid in their golden bow’rs,
Sip the pure nectar of MAY’S blushing rose,
Or faint with noon-day toils, their limbs repose,
In Baths of Essence stol’n from sunny flow’rs.
Oft do I seek thy shade dear with’ring tree,
Sad emblem of my OWN disast’rous 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 tear, and sooth THE CHILD OF WOE.
SONNET TO INGRATITUDE.
He that’s ungrateful, has no guilt but one;
All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
YOUNG.
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 treach’rous 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 pow’r,
Darken’d the sunshine of each youthful day;
While from my path she snatch’d each transient flow’r.
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.
IN early youth, blithe Spring’s exulting day,
Each hour put forth new raptures to my view;
Each sunny morn on downy pinions flew,
Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 18