And swift the jocund minutes danc’d away!
Ere Summer’s breath matur’d my ripening mind,
I found the blissful scene begin to fade;
Cold sorrow hover’d round with wings unkind,
And o’er my bosom spread a dreary shade;
An early Winter chills my glowing breast,
Frost-nipp’d too soon my fondest hopes decay;
My cheek no more with rosy graces bless’d,
Smiles with the freshness of returning May;
So freezing gales in sunny splendours drest,
Fade the young blossoms of the infant spray.
SONNET TO MY BELOVED DAUGHTER.
WHEN FATE in ruthless rage assail’d my breast,
And Heaven relentless seal’d the harsh decree;
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 comfort flows,
Glancing bright lustre o’er each dreary shade.
Still may thy growing REASON’s light divine,
Illume with joy my melancholy bow’rs;
Still may the beams of sacred VIRTUE shine,
To deck thy spring of youth with thornless flow’rs;
So shall their splendid attributes combine,
To shed soft sunshine on MY WINTRY HOURS.
SONNET.
WHEN the loud torrent rushing from the rock,
Spreads desolation o’er the plain below;
In vain the SHEPHERD seeks his little flock,
Where o’er the meadows foaming waters flow;
Fix’d in Despair he wildly gazes round,
He sees his plenteous fields o’erwhelm’d and lost;
His golden harvest by the whirlwind tost;
And his neat cottage levell’d with the ground.
No trace exists of forest, hut, or green,
Still the high CASTLE mocks the fateful hour;
Tow’ring it stands amidst the delug’d scene,
Scorns the wild wave, and mocks the tempest’s pow’r.
So to Oppression bows the hapless swain,
WHILE THE PROUD TYRANT LORDS IT O’ER THE PLAIN!
SONNET. THE MARINER.
THE SEA-BEAT MARINER, whose watchful eye
Full many a boist’rous night hath wak’d to weep;
When the keen blast descending from the sky,
Snatch’d his warm tear-drop from the rav’nous deep.
Drench’d by the chilling rain, his dreary hour
Creeps slowly onward to the dawn of day;
Till burning PHOEBUS darting thro’ the show’r,
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 wand’rer then forgets past pain,
Steals a fond kiss, and BRAVES HIS FATE AGAIN.
SONNET.
NIGHT’S dewy Orb, that o’er yon limpid stream
Its silent light in soft refulgence throws;
Yon limpid stream, whose quiv’ring bosom shows
The tender radiance of the silv’ry 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,
Thro’ the lone valley winds its dimpling course;
Have oft, full oft, been witness to my woe,
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.
SONNET. THE PEASANT.
WIDE 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 prepares;
No pamper’d luxury, no splendid cares
Invade the comforts of his humble lot.
Born to endure, he labours thro’ the day,
And when the midnight storm o’er spreads 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 WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CASTLE IN GERMANY, IN THE YEAR 1786.
YE mould’ring walls where Titian colours glow’d,
And the soft minstrel’s echo charm’d the ear;
Alas! how chang’d your dreary haunts appear,
The solitary Screech-owl’s dark abode.
Where in yon gothic hall fair forms divine,
Trip’d with light heel, or swam with graceful 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 Heav’n, SHALL FADE.
SONNET. THE TEAR.
AH! LUST’ROUS GEM, bright emblem of the Heart,
That nobly scorns a borrow’d ray to share,
Whose gentle pow’r can break the spells of care,
And sooth, with lenient balm, the keenest smart.
Whether from holy FRIENDSHIP’S vow profan’d,
Or the dire frenzy of unpitied LOVE;
Whether from cherish’d passion unrestrain’d,
Or the worst pang the jealous mind can prove.
Yet, if sad mem’ry ling’ring o’er past woe,
Calls THEE, soft trembler, from thy crystal throne,
And sternly bids thy pearly incence flow,
E’en when the treach’rous phantom, HOPE, is flown;
How fickle are the gifts thy rays impart,
At once the BALM and POISON OF THE HEART.
SONNET. THE SNOW DROP.
THOU meekest emblem of the infant year,
Why droops so cold and wan thy fragrant head?
Ah! why retiring to thy frozen bed,
Steals from thy silky leaves the trembling tear?
Day’s op’ning eye shall warm thy gentle breast,
Revive thy timid charms and sickly hue;
Thy drooping buds shall drink the morning dew,
And bloom again by glowing PHOEBUS drest;
Or should the midnight damp, with icy breath,
Nip thy pale check, and bow thee to the ground,
Or the bleak winds thy blossoms scatter round,
And all thy modest beauties fade to death;
E’en in decay thy spotless sweets shall rise,
And midst AURORA’S TEARS evap’rate IN THE SKIES.
SONNET.
WHERE, thro’ the starry curtains of the night,
Soft whisp’ring breezes wake the ruddy morn,
Whose sparkling eye darts forth returning light,
Whose golden brows refulgent beams adorn:
Where gaudy blossoms o’er the tufted vale,
Fling their soft breathings on the spicy gale,
From the lorn NIGHTINGALE on yonder spray,
In melting murmurs steals the love-fraught lay;
Stranger to joy and hopeless of relief,
<
br /> 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.
PETRARCH TO LAURA.
“Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
“How often must it love, how often hate,
“How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
“Conceal, disdain, do all things, but forget.”
POPE.
Supposed to have been written during his retirement at Vaucluse a short time before her death.
YE silent haunts, ye dark embow’ring shades,
Lone shaggy wilds and melancholy glades;
Ye mountains black’ning o’er the thorny vale;
Ye lucid lakes that trembling meet the gale;
Ye gloomy avenues of dire despair,
Dear last asylums of long-cherish’d care;
Eternal solitudes! where LOVE retires
To bathe his wounds, and quench his fatal fires;
Where frantic, lost, forlorn, and sad I go
A wand’ring pilgrim in a maze of woe;
Oh! to your deepest caverns let me fly,
Breathe a fond pray’r, and ‘MIDST YOUR HORRORS DIE.
Ye sparry grots, ye once ador’d retreats,
Ye tinkling rills, ye consecrated seats,
Whose velvet sod embroider’d o’er with flow’rs,
On the charm’d sense celestial odour pours;
Ye roseate banks o’erhung with waving trees,
That moan responsive to the murm’ring breeze;
How cold, how desolate your shade appears,
A path of mis’ry thro’ a vale of tears.
Now pale Despair hangs brooding o’er your bow’rs,
Absorbs your sweets, and withers all your flow’rs;
Strips the thick foliage from your verdant shades,
And spreads eternal darkness o’er your glades;
No more for ME your sunny banks shall pour
In purple tides ripe Autumn’s luscious store;
No more for ME your lust’rous tints shall glow,
Your forests wave, your silv’ry channels flow;
Yet ‘midst your heav’n my wounded breast shall crave
One narrow cell, my SOLACE and my GRAVE.
Subdu’d, o’erwhelm’d, a with’ring shade I stray,
Shrink from myself; and shudder at the day:
No more fond HOPE sustains my sick’ning soul,
Resistless passion spurns her meek controul;
Corroding anguish o’er each prospect low’rs,
Bends my weak frame, my lusty youth devours;
Clings to my breast where ev’ry 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 throbbings of my fev’rish 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 wand’ring footsteps to repose?
When wild with passion, madd’ning with remorse,
From AVIGNON’S lov’d 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 journey’d forth,
Leaving pale twilight weeping o’er the earth;
Oft did I pause, oft turn my longing eyes
To the tall spire that pierc’d the evening skies;
All was serene! save when the curfew’s 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, thro’ long aisles, seraphic PÆANS ring,
And meek-ey’d virgins choral anthems sing!
Where, like a being of celestial mould,
My LAURA’S beauteous form I dar’d behold * !
While at the shrine her orisons she pour’d,
Pure as the spirit of the saint ador’d!
Oft as the cross her snowy fingers press’d,
Her auburn tresses veil’d her spotless 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,
A cherub’s softness harmoniz’d her face;
A smile benign reveal’d her tranquil soul,
While from her lips devotion’s fervour stole;
Each conscious rapture to her share was giv’n,
Her form was virtue, and her mind was heav’n.
Fix’d to the earth with trembling zeal I gaz’d.
Each passion waken’d, and each sense amaz’d!
Involuntary sighs, too soon confess’d
The struggling tumults lab’ring in my breast;
No thought sublime on my rapt feelings hung,
No sacred eloquence unchain’d my tongue;
ALL, ALL WAS LOVE! while thro’ 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,
Enflam’d each wound, and heighten’d 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 pray’r,
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 subdu’d it supplicates relief,
Dash the doom’d suff’rer to eternal grief?
Why, soft enchantress, spread the fatal snare
That lures thy struggling victim to despair?
Why with meek smiles my wand’ring 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:
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 o’er my quiv’ring heart-strings patience shed;
Check with thy councils ev’ry madd’ning flight,
Direct me trembling to the paths of light;
Bow my parch’d dip 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 thro’ my tears:
Thy voice I hear in ev’ry 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 lust’rous heralds of thy soul’s rich blaze!
A matron’s purity thy smiles impart,
And Heav’n’s best splendours brighten in thy heart;
Ah! wherefore PETRARCH, wherefore rashly dare
The dang’rous magic of a form so fair?
Yet ere thy pow’r supreme my soul confess’d,
Ere fainting Virtue fled my burning breast;
While in its veins one ling’ring 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-resolv’d I stray’d;
And trembling, fault’ring, frequent sighs I pour’d
Before the shrine of HIM but half ador’d:
While as the sacred Virgin’s form I view’d
A brighter IDOL, every sense subdu’d!
While holy vows were lost in warm desires
LOVE drop’d a tear that quench’d religion’s fires:
While thro’ my eyes my heart’s true fervour shone,
And my fond soul, dear Saint, WAS ALL THY OWN!
Now o’er some craggy peak when frowning night
Grasps the last shad’wy tint of ruby light;
When o’er the vast expanse I seek in vain
The tawny vineyard and the yellow plain;
Heedless I wander, while the tempest flies,
Brave the bleak winds, and mock the threat’ning skies.
Where from the wild romantic cliffs around
The headlong torrents fall with hollow sound;
And stealing thro’ the winding vale below,
Unseen, thro’ mid-day glooms incessant flow;
While sullen echo’s aëry tongue betrays,
Where round her seat each brawling channel strays;
While the lone owl her lurid haunts among,
To the pale moon repeats her nightly song;
While rocks acute, my fev’rish limbs sustain,
Chill’d by the freezing blast and drizzling rain;
Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 19