And all of Sappho perish, but her name!
Yet, if the Fates suspend their barb’rous ire,
If days less mournful, Heav’n designs for me!
If rocks grow kind, and winds and waves conspire,
To bear me softly on the swelling sea;eacute;
To Phoebus only will I tune my Lyre,
“What suits with Sappho, Phoebus suits with thee!”
XLIII. Her Reflections on the Leucadian Rock before she perishes.
While from the dizzy precipice I gaze,
The world receding from my pensive eyes,
High o’er my head the tyrant eagle flies,
Cloth’d in the sinking sun’s transcendent blaze!
The meek-ey’d 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 fev’rish dream;
Then shall my Lyre disdain love’s dread control,
And loftier passions, prompt the loftier theme!
XLIV. Sonnect 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 flowr’s to bind!
For now, with folded arms and head inclin’d,
Reflection pours the deep and frequent sigh,
O’er the dark scroll of human destiny,
Where gaudy buds and wounding thorns are twin’d.
O! Sky-born Virtue! sacred is thy name!
And though mysterious Fate, with frown severe,
Oft decorates thy brows with wreaths of Fame,
Bespangled o’er with sorrow’s chilling tear!
Yet shalt thou more than mortal raptures claim,
The brightest planet of th’ Eternal Sphere!
Lyrical Tales
CONTENTS
ALL ALONE.
THE MISTLETOE.
THE POOR, SINGING DAME.
MISTRESS GURTON’S CAT.
THE LASCAR.
THE WIDOW’S HOME.
THE SHEPHERD’S DOG.
THE FUGITIVE.
THE HAUNTED BEACH.
OLD BARNARD,
THE HERMIT OF MONT‐BLANC.
DEBORAH’S PARROT,
THE NEGRO GIRL.
THE TRUMPETER.
THE DESERTED COTTAGE.
THE FORTUNE‐TELLER,
POOR MARGUERITE.
THE CONFESSOR,
EDMUND’S WEDDING.
THE ALIEN BOY.
THE GRANNY GREY.
GOLFRE
GOLFRE PART I.
GOLFRE PART II.
GOLFRE PART III.
GOLFRE PART IV.
GOLFRE PART V.
ALL ALONE.
I.
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 art left alone?
II.
Thou art not left alone, poor boy,
The Trav’ller stops to hear thy tale;
No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!
For tho’ thy mother’s cheek is pale
And withers under yon grave stone,
Thou art not, Urchin, left alone.
III.
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 mien
Were all to me, poor Orphan, known,
Ere Fate had left thee all alone!
IV.
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.
V.
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!
VI.
The rain has drench’d thee, all night long;
The nipping frost thy bosom froze;
And still, the yewtree‐shades among,
I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;
I heard thee, till the day‐star shone
In darkness weep and weep alone!
VII.
Oft have I seen thee, little boy,
Upon thy lovely mother’s knee;
For when she liv’d 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.
VIII.
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?
IX.
“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!
X.
“I cannot gather gaudy flowers
“To dress the scene of revels loud
“I cannot pass the ev’ning hours
“Among the noisy village croud
“For, all in darkness, and alone
“My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.
XI.
“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‐tree’s shadowy row
“It falls upon the white grave‐stone,
“Where my dear mother sleeps alone.
XII.
“O stay me not, for I must go
“The upland path in haste 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 mould’ring all alone.
XIII.
“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.
“And shall I ever quit the stone
“Where she is, left, to sleep alone.
XIV.
“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.
XV.
“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.
XVI.
“The playful kid, she lov’d so well
&nbs
p; “From yon high clift was seen to fall;
“I heard, afar, his tink’ling bell
“Which seem’d in vain for aid to call
“I heard the harmless suff’rer moan,
“And grieved that he was left alone.
XVII.
“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 mis’ry’s groan.
XVIII.
“My mother still surviv’d 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.”
XIX. [ XXI. ]
“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!”
XX.
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.
XXI.
And when the summer noontide hours
With scorching rays the landscape spread,
I mark’d thee, weaving fragrant flow’rs
To deck thy mother’s silent bed!
Nor, at the church‐yard’s simple stone,
Wert, thou, poor Urchin, left alone.
XXII.
I follow’d thee, along the dale
And up the woodland’s shad’wy way:
I heard thee tell thy mournful tale
As slowly sunk the star of day:
Nor, when its twinkling light had flown,
Wert thou a wand’rer, all alone.
XXIII.
“O! yes, I was! and still shall be
“A wand’rer, 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!
XXIV.
“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!
XXV.
“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 flow’rs the stone;
“Then surely, I AM LEFT ALONE!”
THE MISTLETOE.
A CHRISTMAS TALE.
A FARMER’S WIFE, both young and gay,
And fresh as op’ning buds of May;
Had taken to herself, a Spouse,
And plighted many solemn vows,
That she a faithful mate would prove,
In meekness, duty, and in love!
That she, despising joy and wealth,
Would be, in sickness and in health,
His only comfort and his Friend
But, mark the sequel, and attend!
This Farmer, as the tale is told
Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!
His, was the wintry hour of life,
While summer smiled before his wife;
A contrast, rather form’d to cloy
The zest of matrimonial joy!
’Twas Christmas time, the peasant throng
Assembled gay, with dance and Song:
The Farmer’s Kitchen long had been
Of annual sports the busy scene;
The wood‐fire blaz’d, the chimney wide
Presented seats, on either side;
Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean,
Bedeck’d with holly‐boughs, were seen;
The shining Tankard’s foamy ale*
Gave spirits to the Goblin tale,
And many a rosy cheek grew pale.
It happen’d, that some sport to shew
The ceiling held a MISTLETOE.
A magic bough, and well design’d
To prove the coyest Maiden, kind.
A magic bough, which DRUIDS old
Its sacred mysteries enroll’d;
And which, or gossip Fame’s a liar,
Still warms the soul with vivid fire;
Still promises a store of bliss
While bigots snatch their Idol’s kiss.
This MISTLETOE was doom’d to be
The talisman of Destiny;
Beneath its ample boughs we’re told
Full many a timid Swain grew bold;
Full many a roguish eye askance
Beheld it with impatient glance,
And many a ruddy cheek confest,
The triumphs of the beating breast;
And many a rustic rover sigh’d
Who ask’d the kiss, and was denied.
First MARG’RY smil’d and gave her Lover
A Kiss; then thank’d her stars, ’twas over!
Next, KATE, with a reluctant pace,
Was tempted to the mystic place;
Then SUE, a merry laughing jade
A dimpled yielding blush betray’d;
While JOAN her chastity to shew
Wish’d “the bold knaves would serve her so,”
She’d “teach the rogues such wanton play!”
And well she could, she knew the way.
The FARMER, mute with jealous care,
Sat sullen, in his wicker chair;
Hating the noisy gamesome host
Yet, fearful to resign his post;
He envied all their sportive strife
But most he watch’d his blooming wife,
And trembled, lest her steps should go,
Incautious, near the MISTLETOE.
Now HODGE, a youth of rustic grace
With form athletic; manly face;
On MISTRESS HOMESPUN turn’d his eye
And breath’d a soul‐declaring sigh!
Old HOMESPUN, mark’d his list’ning Fair
And nestled in his wicker chair;
HODGE swore, she might his heart command
The pipe was dropp’d from HOMESPUN’S hand!
HODGE prest her slender waist around;
The FARMER check’d his draught, and frown’d!
And now beneath the MISTLETOE
’Twas MISTRESS HOMESPUN’S turn to go;
Old Surly shook his wicker chair,
And sternly utter’d “Let her dare!”
HODGE, to the FARMER’S wife declar’d
Such husbands never should be spar’d;
Swore, they deserv’d the worst disgrace,
That lights upon the wedded race;
And vow’d that night he would not go
Unblest, beneath the MISTLETOE.
The merry group all recommend
An harmless Kiss, the strife to end:
“Why not?” says MARG’RY, “who would fear,
“A dang’rous moment, once a year?”
SUSAN observ’d, that “ancient folks
“Were seldom pleas’d with youthful jokes;”
But KATE, who, till that fatal hour,
Had held, o’er HODGE, unrivall’d pow’r,
With curving lip and head aside
Look’d down and smil’d in conscious pride,
Then, anxious to conceal her care,
She humm’d “what fools some women are!”
Now, MISTRESS HOMESPUN, sorely vex’d,
By pride and jealous rage perplex’d,
And angry, that her peevish spouse
Should doubt her matrimonial vows,
But, most of all, resolved to make
An envious rival’s bosom ache;
Commanded Hodge to let her go,
Nor lead her to the Mistletoe;
“Why should you ask it o’er and o’er?”
Cried she, “we’ve been there twice before!”
’Tis thus, to check a rival’s sway,
That Women oft themselves betray;
While VANITY, alone, pursuing,
They rashly prove, their own undoing.
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,
Were rock’d to and fro, when the Tempest would roar,
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,
And wild buds thick dappled the clear river’s edge.
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, or goblin or 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 liv’d in the little Hut chearly,
Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily sing:
When with revels the Castle’s great Hall was resounding,
The Old Dame was sleeping, not dreaming of fear;
And when over the mountains the Huntsmen were bounding
She would open her wicket, their clamours to hear.
To the merry‐ton’d horn, she would dance on the threshold,
And louder, and louder, repeat her old Song:
And when Winter its mantle of Frost was displaying
She caroll’d, undaunted, the bare woods among:
She would gather dry Fern, ever happy and singing,
With her cake of brown bread, and her jug of brown beer,
And would smile when she heard the great Castle‐bell ringing,
Inviting the Proud to their prodigal chear.
Thus she liv’d, ever patient and ever contented,
Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 29