Enthrall’d him in a wond’ring trance;
He thought her lovelier far than KATE,
And wish’d that she had been his mate;
For when the FANCY is on wing,
VARIETY’S a dangerous thing:
And PASSIONS, when they learn to stray
Will seldom seldom keep the beaten way.
The gypsy‐girl, with speaking eyes,
Observ’d her pupil’s fond surprize,
She begg’d that he her hand would cross,
With Sixpence; and that He should know
His future scene of gain and loss,
His weal and woe.
LUBIN complies. And straight he hears
That he had many long, long years;
That he a maid inconstant, loves,
Who, to another slyly roves.
That a dark man his bane will be
“And poison his domestic hours;
“While a fair woman, treach’rously
“Will dress his brow with thorns and flow’rs!”
It happen’d, to confirm his care
STEPHEN was dark, and KATE was fair!
Nay more that “home his bride would bring
“A little, alien, prattling thing
“In just six moons!” Poor LUBIN hears
All that confirms his jealous fears;
Perplex’d and frantic, what to do
The cheated Lover scarcely knew.
He flies to KATE, and straight he tells
The wonder that in magic dwells!
Speaks of the Fortune‐telling crew,
And how all things the Vagrants knew;
KATE hears: and soon determines, she
Will know her future destiny.
Swift to the wood she hies, tho’ late
To read the tablet of her Fate.
The Moon its crystal beam scarce shew’d
Upon the darkly shadow’d road;
The hedge‐row was the feasting‐place
Where, round a little blazing wood,
The wand’ring, dingy, gabbling race,
Crowded in merry mood.
And now she loiter’d near the scene.
Now peep’d the hazle copse between;
Fearful that LUBIN might be near
The story of her Fate to hear.
She saw the feasting circle gay
By the stol’n faggot’s yellow light;
She heard them, as in sportive play,
They chear’d the sullen gloom of night.
Nor was sly KATE by all unseen
Peeping, the hazle copse between.
And now across the thicket side
A tatter’d, skulking youth she spied;
He beckon’d her along, and soon,
Hid safely from the prying moon,
His hand with silver, thrice she crosses
“Tell me,” said she, “my gains and losses?”
“You gain a fool,” the youth replies,
“You lose a lover too.”
The false one blushes deep, and sighs,
For well the truth she knew!
“You gave to STEPHEN, vows; nay more
“You gave him favors rare:
“And LUBIN is condemn’d to share
“What many others shar’d before!
“A false, capricious, guilty heart,
“Made up of folly, vice, and art,
“Which only takes a wedded mate
“To brand with shame, an husband’s fate.”
“Hush! hush!” cried KATE, for Heav’n’s sake be
“As secret as the grave
“For LUBIN means to marry me
“And if you will not me betray,
“I for your silence well will pay;
“Five pounds this moment you shall have.”
“I will have TEN!” the gypsy cries
“The fearful, trembling girl complies.
But, what was her dismay, to find
That LUBIN was the gypsy bold;
The cunning, fortune‐telling hind
Who had the artful story told
Who thus, was cur’d of jealous pain,
“And got his TEN POUNDS back again!
Thus, Fortune pays the LOVER bold!
But, gentle Maids, should Fate
Have any secret yet untold,
Remember, simple KATE!
POOR MARGUERITE.
Swift, o’er the wild and dreary waste
A NUT‐BROWN GIRL was seen to haste;
Wide waving was her unbound hair,
And sun‐scorch’d was her bosom bare;
For Summer’s noon had shed its beams
While she lay wrapp’d in fev’rish dreams;
While, on the wither’d hedge‐row’s side,
By turns she slept, by turns she cried,
“Ah! where lies hid the balsam sweet,
“To heal the wounds of MARGUERITE?”
Dark was her large and sunken eye
Which wildly gaz’d upon the sky;
And swiftly down her freckled face
The chilling dews began to pace:
For she was lorn, and many a day,
Had, all alone, been doom’d to stray,
And, many a night, her bosom warm,
Had throbb’d, beneath the pelting storm,
And still she cried, “the rain falls sweet,
“It bathes the wounds of MARGUERITE.”
Her garments were by briars torn,
And on them hung full many a thorn;
A thistle crown, she mutt’ring twin’d,
Now darted on, now look’d behind
And here, and there, her arm was seen
Bleeding the tatter’d folds between;
Yet, on her breast she oft display’d
A faded branch, that breast to shade:
For though her senses were astray,
She felt the burning beams of day:
She felt the wintry blast of night,
And smil’d to see the morning light,
For then she cried, “I soon shall meet
“The plighted love of MARGUERITE.”
Across the waste of printless snow,
All day the NUT‐BROWN GIRL would go;
And when the winter moon had shed
Its pale beams on the mountain’s head,
She on a broomy pillow lay
Singing the lonely hours away;
While the cold breath of dawnlight flew
Across the fields of glitt’ring dew:
Swift o’er the frozen lake she past
Unmindful of the driving blast,
And then she cried “the air is sweet
“It fans the breast of MARGUERITE.”
The weedy lane she Iov’d to tread
When stars their twinkling lustre shed;
While from the lone and silent Cot
The watchful Cur assail’d her not,
Though at the beggar he would fly,
And fright the Trav’ller passing by:
But she, so kind and gentle seem’d,
Such sorrow in her dark eyes beam’d,
That savage fierceness could not greet
With less than love, POOR MARGUERITE!
Oft, by the splashy brook she stood
And sung her Song to the waving wood;
The waving wood, in murmurs low,
Fill’d up the pause of weary woe;
Oft, to the Forest tripp’d along
And inly humm’d her frantic Song;
Oft danc’d mid shadows Ev’ning spread
Along the whisp’ring willow‐bed.
And wild was her groan,
When she climb’d, alone
The rough rock’s side,
While the foaming tide,
Dash’d rudely against the sandy shore,
And the lightning flash’d mid the thunder’s roar.
And many a time she chac’d the fly,
And mock’d the Beetle, humming by;
She sang her wild strain, sad alone.
And if a stranger wander’d near
Or paus’d the frantic Song to hear,
The burthen she would soft repeat,
“Who comes to soothe POOR MARGUERITE?
And why did she with sun‐burnt breast,
So wander, and so scorn to rest?
Why did the NUT‐BROWN MAIDEN go
O’er burning plains and wastes of snow?
What bade her fev’rish bosom sigh,
And dimm’d her large and hazle eye?
What taught her o’er the hills to stray
Fearless by night, and wild by day?
What stole the hour of slumber sweet
From the scorch’d brain of MARGUERITE.
Soon shalt thou know; for see how lorn
She climbs the steep of shaggy thorn
Now on the jutting cliff she stands,
And clasps her cold, but snow‐white hands.
And now aloud she chaunts her strain
While fiercely roars the troublous main.
Now the white breakers curling shew
The dread abyss that yawns below,
And still she sighs, “the sound is sweet,
“It seems to say, POOR MARGUERITE!”
“Here will I build a rocky shed,
“And here I’ll make my sea‐weed bed;
“Here gather, with unwearied hands
“The orient shells that deck the sands.
“And here will I skim o’er the billows so high,
“And laugh at the moon and the dark frowning sky.
“And the Sea‐birds, that hover across the wide main,
“Shall sweep with their pinions, the white bounding plain.
“And the shivering sail shall the fierce tempest meet,
“Like the storm, in the bosom of POOR MARGUERITE!
“The setting Sun, with golden ray,
“Shall warm my breast, and make me gay.
“The clamours of the roaring Sea
“My midnight serenade shall be!
“The Cliff that like a Tyrant stands
“Exulting o’er the wave lash’d sands,
“With its weedy crown, and its flinty crest,
“Shall, on its hard bosom, rock me to rest;
“And I’ll watch for the Eagle’s unfledg’d brood,
“And I’ll scatter their nest, and I’ll drink their blood;
“And under the crag I will kneel and pray
“And silver my robe, with the moony ray:
“And who shall scorn the lone retreat
“Which Heaven has chose, for MARGUERITE?
“Here, did the exil’d HENRY stray
“Forc’d from his native land, away;
“Here, here upon a foreign shore,
“His parents, lost, awhile deplore;
“Here find, that pity’s holy tear
“Could not an alien wand’rer chear;
“And now, in fancy, he would view,
“Shouting aloud, the rabble crew
“The rabble crew, whose impious hands
“Tore asunder nature’s bands!
“I see him still, He waves me on!
“And now to the dark abyss he’s gone
“He calls I hear his voice, so sweet,
“It seems to say POOR MARGUERITE!”
Thus, wild she sung! when on the sand
She saw her long lost HENRY, stand:
Pale was his cheek, and on his breast
His icy hand he, silent, prest;
And now the Twilight shadows spread
Around the tall cliff’s weedy head;
Far o’er the main the moon shone bright,
She mark’d the quiv’ring stream of light
It danc’d upon the murm’ring wave
It danc’d upon her HENRY’S Grave!
It mark’d his visage, deathly pale,
His white shroud floating in the gale;
His speaking eyes his smile so sweet
That won the love of MARGUERITE!
And now he beckon’d her along
The curling moonlight waves among;
No footsteps mark’d the slanting sand
Where she had seen her HENRY stand!
She saw him o’er the billows go
She heard the rising breezes blow;
She shriek’d aloud! The echoing steep
Frown’d darkness on the troubled deep;
The moon in cloudy veil was seen,
And louder howl’d the night blast keen!
And when the morn, in splendour dress’d,
Blush’d radiance on the Eagle’s nest,
That radiant blush was doom’d to greet
The lifeless form of MARGUERITE!
THE CONFESSOR,
A SANCTIFIED TALE.
When SUPERSTITION rul’d the land
And Priestcraft shackled Reason,
At GODSTOW dwelt a goodly band,
Grey monks they were, and but to say
They were not always giv’n to pray,
Would have been construed Treason.
Yet some did scoff, and some believ’d
That sinners were themselves deceiv’d;
And taking Monks for more than men
They prov’d themselves, nine out of ten,
Mere dupes of these Old Fathers hoary;
But read and mark the story.
Near, in a little Farm, there liv’d
A buxom Dame of twenty three;
And by the neighbours ’twas believ’d
A very Saint was She!
Yet, ev’ry week, for some transgression,
She went to sigh devout confession.
For ev’ry trifle seem’d to make
Her self‐reproving Conscience ache;
And Conscience, waken’d, ’tis well known,
Will never let the Soul alone.
At GODSTOW, ‘mid the holy band,
Old FATHER PETER held command.
And lusty was the pious man,
As any of his crafty clan:
And rosy was his cheek, and sly
The wand’rings of his keen grey eye;
Yet all the Farmers wives confest
The wond’rous pow’r this Monk possess’d;
Pow’r to rub out the score of sin,
Which SATAN chalk’d upon his Tally;
To give fresh licence to begin,
And for new scenes of frolic, rally.
For abstinence was not his way
He lov’d to live as well as pray;
To prove his gratitude to Heav’n
By taking freely all its favors,
And keeping his account still even,
Still mark’d his best endeavours:
That is to say, He took pure Ore
For benedictions, and was known,
While Reason op’d her golden store,
Not to unlock his own.
And often to his cell went he
With the gay Dame of twenty‐three:
His Cell was sacred, and the fair
Well knew, that none could enter there,
Who, (such was PETER’S sage decree,)
To Paradise ne’er bought a key.
It happen’d that this Farmer’s wife
(Call MISTRESS TWYFORD alias BRIDGET,)
Led her poor spouse a weary life
Keeping him, in an endless fidget!
Yet ev’ry week she sought the cell
Where Holy FATHER PETER stay’d,
And there did ev’ry secret tell,
And there, at Sun‐rise, knelt and pray’d.
For near, there liv’d a civil friend,
Than FARMER TWYFORD somewhat stouter,
And he would oft his counsel lend,
And pass the wintry hours away
In harmless play;
But MISTRESS BRIDGET was so chaste,
So much wi
th pious manners grac’d,
That none could doubt her!
One night, or rather morn, ’tis said
The wily neighbour chose to roam,
And (FARMER TWYFORD far from home),
He thought he might supply his place;
And, void of ev’ry spark of grace,
Upon HIS pillow, rest his head.
The night was cold, and FATHER PETER,
Sent his young neighbour to entreat her,
That she would make confession free
To Him, his saintly deputy.
Now, so it happen’d, to annoy
The merry pair, a little boy
The only Son of lovely Bridget,
And, like his daddy, giv’n to fidget,
Enquir’d who this same neighbour was
That took the place his father left
A most unworthy, shameless theft,
A sacrilege on marriage laws!
The dame was somewhat disconcerted
For, all that she could say or do,
The boy his question would renew,
Nor from his purpose be diverted.
At length, the matter to decide,
“’Tis FATHER PETER” she replied.
“He’s come to pray.” The child gave o’er,
When a loud thumping at the door
Proclaim’d the Husband coming! Lo!
Where could the wily neighbour go?
Where hide his recreant, guilty head
But underneath the Farmer’s bed?
NOW MASTER TWYFORD kiss’d his child;
And straight the cunning urchin smil’d :
“Hush father! hush! ’tis break of day
“And FATHER PETER’S come to pray!
“You must not speak,” the infant cries
“For underneath the bed he lies.”
Now MISTRESS TWYFORD shriek’d, and fainted,
And the sly neighbour found, too late,
The FARMER, than his wife less sainted,
For with his cudgel he repaid
The kindness of his faithless mate,
And fiercely on his blows he laid,
‘Till her young lover, vanquish’d, swore
He’d play THE CONFESSOR no more!
Tho’ fraud is ever sure to find
Its scorpion in the guilty mind:
Yet, PIOUS FRAUD, the DEVIL’S treasure,
Is always paid, in TENFOLD MEASURE.
EDMUND’S WEDDING.
By the side of the brook, where the willow is waving
Why sits the wan Youth, in his wedding‐suit gay!
Now sighing so deeply, now frantickly raving
Beneath the pale light of the moon’s sickly ray.
Now he starts, all aghast, and with horror’s wild gesture,
Cries, “AGNES is coming, I know her white vesture!
“See! see! how she beckons me on to the willow,
“Where, on the cold turf, she has made our rude pillow.
“Sweet girl! yes I know thee; thy cheek’s living roses
Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 35