“Are chang’d and grown pale, with the touch of despair:
“And thy bosom no longer the lily discloses
“For thorns, my poor AGNES, are now planted there!
“Thy blue, starry Eyes! are all dimm’d by dark sorrow;
“No more from thy lip, can the flow’r fragrance borrow;
“For cold does it seem, like the pale light of morning,
“And thou smil’st, as in sadness, thy fond lover, scorning!
“From the red scene of slaughter thy Edmund returning,
“Has dress’d himself gayly, with May‐blooming flow’rs;
“His bosom, dear AGNES! still faithfully burning,
“While, madly impatient, his eyes beam in show’rs!
“O! many a time have I thought of thy beauty
“When cannons, loud roaring, taught Valour its duty;
“And many a time, have I sigh’d to behold thee
“When the sulphur of War, in its cloudy mist roll’d me!
“At the still hour of morn, when the Camp was reposing,
“I wander’d alone on the wide dewy plain:
“And when the gold curtains of Ev’ning were closing,
“I watch’d the long shadows steal over the Main!
“Across the wild Ocean, half frantic they bore me,
“Unheeding my groans, from Thee, AGNES, they tore me;
“But, though my poor heart might have bled in the battle,
“Thy name should have echoed, amidst the loud rattle!
“When I gaz’d on the field of the dead and the dying
“O AGNES! my fancy still wander’d to Thee!
“When around, my brave Comrades in anguish were lying,
“I long’d on the death‐bed of Valour to be.
“For, sever’d from THEE, my SWEET GIRL, the loud thunder
“Which tore the soft fetters of fondness asunder
“Had only one kindness, in mercy to shew me,
“To bid me die bravely, that thou, Love, may’st know me!
His arms now are folded, he bows as in sorrow,
His tears trickle fast, down his wedding‐suit gay;
“My AGNES will bless me,” he murmurs, “to‐morrow,
“As fresh as the breezes that welcome the day!”
Poor Youth! know thy AGNES, so lovely and blooming,
Stern Death has embrac’d, all her beauties entombing!
And, pale as her shroud in the grave she reposes,
Her bosom of snow, all besprinkled with Roses!
Her Cottage is now in the dark dell decaying,
And shatter’d the casements, and clos’d is the door,
And the nettle now waves, where the wild KID is playing,
And the neat little garden with weeds is grown o’er!
The Owl builds its nest in the thatch, and there, shrieking,
(A place all deserted and lonely bespeaking)
Salutes the night traveller, wandering near it,
And makes his faint heart, sicken sadly to hear it.
Then Youth, for thy habit, henceforth, thou should’st borrow
The Raven’s dark colour, and mourn for thy dear:
Thy AGNES for thee, would have cherish’d her Sorrow,
And drest her pale cheek with a lingering tear:
For, soon as thy steps to the Battle departed,
She droop’d, and poor Maiden! she died, broken hearted
And the turf that is bound with fresh garlands of roses,
Is now the cold bed, where her sorrow reposes!
The gay and the giddy may revel in pleasure,
May think themselves happy, their short summer‐day;
May gaze, with fond transport, on fortune’s rich treasure,
And, carelessly sporting, drive sorrow away:
But the bosom, where feeling and truth are united
From folly’s bright tinsel will turn, undelighted
And find, at the grave where thy AGNES is sleeping,
That the proudest of hours, is the lone hour of weeping!
The Youth now approach’d the long branch of the willow,
And stripping its leaves, on the turf threw them round.
“Here, here, my sweet AGNES! I make my last pillow,
“My bed of long slumber, shall be the cold ground!
“The Sun, when it rises above thy low dwelling,
“Shall gild the tall Spire, where my death‐toll is knelling.
“And when the next twilight its soft tears is shedding,
“At thy Grave shall the Villagers witness our WEDDING!
Now over the Hills he beheld a group coming,
Their arms glitter’d bright, as the Sun slowly rose;
He heard them their purposes, far distant, humming,
And welcom’d the moment, that ended his woes!
And now the fierce Comrade, unfeeling, espies him,
He darts thro’ the thicket, in hopes to surprize him;
But EDMUND, of Valour the dauntless defender,
Now smiles, while his CORPORAL bids him “SURRENDER!”
Soon, prov’d a DESERTER, Stern Justice prevailing,
HE DIED! and his Spirit to AGNES is fled:
The breeze, on the mountain’s tall summit now sailing
Fans lightly the dew‐drops, that spangle their bed!
The Villagers, thronging around, scatter roses,
The grey wing of Evening the western sky closes,
And Night’s sable pall, o’er the landscape extending,
Is the mourning of Nature! the SOLEMN SCENE ENDING.
THE ALIEN BOY.
’Twas on a Mountain, near the Western Main
An ALIEN dwelt. A solitary Hut
Built on a jutting crag, o’erhung with weeds,
Mark’d the poor Exile’s home. Full ten long years
The melancholy wretch had liv’d unseen
By all, save HENRY, a lov’d, little Son
The partner of his sorrows. On the day
When Persecution, in the sainted guise
Of Liberty, spread wide its venom’d pow’r,
The brave, Saint HUBERT, fled his Lordly home,
And, with his baby Son, the mountain sought.
Resolv’d to cherish in his bleeding breast
The secret of his birth, Ah! birth too high
For his now humbled state, from infancy
He taught him, labour’s task: He bade him chear
The dreary day of cold adversity
By patience and by toil. The Summer morn
Shone on the pillow of his rushy bed;
The noontide, sultry hour, he fearless past
On the shagg’d eminence; while the young Kid
Skipp’d, to the cadence of his minstrelsy.
At night young HENRY trimm’d the faggot fire
While oft, Saint HUBERT, wove the ample net
To snare the finny victim. Oft they sang
And talk’d, while sullenly the waves would sound
Dashing the sandy shore. Saint HUBERT’S eyes
Would swim in tears of fondness, mix’d with joy,
When he observ’d the op’ning harvest rich
Of promis’d intellect, which HENRY’S soul,
Whate’er the subject of their talk, display’d.
Oft, the bold Youth, in question intricate,
Would seek to know the story of his birth;
Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skill
Enquire, why he, and only one beside,
Peopled the desart mountain? Still his Sire
Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure,
Varied the conversation. Still the mind
Of HENRY ponder’d; for, in their lone hut,
A daily journal would Saint HUBERT make
Of his long banishment: and sometimes speak
Of Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;
Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes
One winter time,
’Twas on the Eve of Christmas, the shrill blast
Swept o’er the stormy main. The boiling foam
Rose to an altitude so fierce and strong
That their low hovel totter’d. Oft they stole
To the rock’s margin, and with fearful eyes
Mark’d the vex’d deep, as the slow rising moon
Gleam’d on the world of waters. ’Twas a scene
Would make a Stoic shudder! For, amid
The wavy mountains, they beheld, alone,
A LITTLE BOAT, now scarcely visible;
And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy,
Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore!
Now the full Moon, in crimson lustre shone
Upon the outstretch’d Ocean. The black clouds
Flew stiffly on, the wild blast following,
And, as they flew, dimming the angry main
With shadows horrible! Still, the small boat
Struggled amid the waves, a sombre speck
Upon the wide domain of howling Death!
Saint HUBERT sigh’d! while HENRY’S speaking eye
Alternately the stormy scene survey’d
And his low hovel’s safety. So past on
The hour of midnight, and, since first they knew
The solitary scene, no midnight hour
E’er seem’d so long and weary.
While they stood,
Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyes
Fix’d on the troublous Ocean, suddenly
The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore,
Left the small wreck; and crawling on the side
Of the rude crag, a HUMAN FORM was seen!
And now he climb’d the foam‐wash’d precipice,
And now the slip’ry weeds gave way, while he
Descended to the sands: The moon rose high
The wild blast paus’d, and the poor shipwreck’d Man
Look’d round aghast, when on the frowning steep
He marked the lonely exiles. Now he call’d
But he was feeble, and his voice was lost
Amid the din of mingling sounds that rose
From the wild scene of clamour.
Down the steep
Saint HUBERT [ HUBRET ] hurried, boldly venturous,
Catching the slimy weeds, from point to point,
And unappall’d by peril. At the foot
Of the rude rock, the fainting mariner
Seiz’d on his outstretch’d arm; impatient, wild,
With transport exquisite! But ere they heard
The blest exchange of sounds articulate,
A furious billow, rolling on the steep,
Engulph’d them in Oblivion!
On the rock
Young HENRY stood; with palpitating heart,
And fear‐struck, e’en to madness! Now he call’d,
Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew;
But, mid the elemental strife of sounds,
No human voice gave answer! The clear moon
No longer quiver’d on the curling main,
But, mist‐encircled, shed a blunted light,
Enough to shew all things that mov’d around,
Dreadful, but indistinctly! The black weeds
Wav’d, as the night‐blast swept them; and along
The rocky shore the breakers, sounding low
Seem’d like the whisp’ring of a million souls
Beneath the green‐deep mourning.
Four long hours
The lorn Boy listen’d! four long tedious hours
Pass’d wearily away, when, in the East
The grey beam coldly glimmer’d. All alone
Young HENRY stood aghast : his Eye wide fix’d;
While his dark locks, uplifted by the storm
Uncover’d met its fury. On his cheek
Despair sate terrible! For, mid the woes,
Of poverty and toil, he had not known,
Till then, the horror‐giving chearless hour
Of TOTAL SOLITUDE!
He spoke he groan’d,
But no responsive voice, no kindred tone
Broke the dread pause: For now the storm had ceas’d,
And the bright Sun‐beams glitter’d on the breast
Of the green placid Ocean. To his Hut
The lorn Boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch,
The pillow still indented, met his gaze
And fix’d his eye in madness. From that hour
A maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been;
His garb with sea‐weeds fring’d, and his wan cheek
The tablet of his mind, disorder’d, chang’d,
Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance,
A Sea‐beat wand’rer from the outstretch’d main
Views the lone Exile, and with gen’rous zeal
Hastes to the sandy beach, he suddenly
Darts ‘mid the cavern’d cliffs, and leaves pursuit
To track him, where no footsteps but his own,
Have e’er been known to venture! YET HE LIVES
A melancholy proof that Man may bear
All the rude storms of Fate, and still suspire
By the wide world forgotten!
THE GRANNY GREY.
A LOVE TALE.
DAME DOWSON, was a granny grey,
Who, three score years and ten,
Had pass’d her busy hours away,
In talking of the Men!
They were her theme, at home, abroad,
At wake, and by the winter fire,
Whether it froze, or blew, or thaw’d,
In sunshine or in shade, her ire
Was never calm’d; for still she made
Scandal her pleasure and her trade!
A Grand‐daughter DAME DOWSON had
As fair, as fair could be!
Lovely enough to make Men mad;
For, on her cheek’s soft downy rose
LOVE seem’d in dimples to repose;
Her clear blue eyes look’d mildly bright
Like ether drops of liquid light,
Or sapphire gems, which VENUS bore,
When, for the silver‐sanded shore,
She left her native Sea!
ANNETTA, was the damsel’s name;
A pretty, soft, romantic sound;
Such as a lover’s heart may wound;
And set his fancy in a flame:
For had the maid been christen’d JOAN,
Or DEBORAH, or HESTER,
The little God had coldly prest her,
Or, let her quite alone!
For magic is the silver sound
Which, often, in a NAME is found!
ANNETTA was belov’d; and She
To WILLIAM gave her vows;
For WILLIAM was as brave a Youth,
As ever claim’d the meed of truth,
And, to reward such constancy,
Nature that meed allows.
But Old DAME DOWSON could not bear
A Youth so brave a Maid so fair.
The GRANNY GREY, with maxims grave
Oft to ANNETTA lessons gave:
And still the burthen of the Tale
Was, “Keep the wicked Men away,
“For should their wily arts prevail
“You’ll surely rue the day!”
And credit was to GRANNY due,
The truth, she, by EXPERIENCE, knew!
ANNETTA blush’d, and promis’d She
Obedient to her will would be.
But Love, with cunning all his own,
Would never let the Maid alone:
And though she dar’d not see her Lover,
Lest GRANNY should the deed discover,
She, for a woman’s weapon, still,
From CUPID’S pinion pluck’d a quill:
And, with it, prov’d that human art
Cannot confi
ne the Female Heart.
At length, an assignation She
With WILLIAM slily made,
It was beneath an old Oak Tree,
Whose widely spreading shade
The Moon’s soft beams contriv’d to break
For many a Village Lover’s sake.
But Envy has a Lynx’s eye
And GRANNY DOWSON cautious went
Before, to spoil their merriment,
Thinking no creature nigh.
Young WILLIAM came; but at the tree
The watchful GRANDAM found!
Straight to the Village hasten’d he
And summoning his neighbours round,
The Hedgerow’s tangled boughs among,
Conceal’d the list’ning wond’ring throng.
He told them that, for many a night,
An OLD GREY OWL was heard;
A fierce, ill‐omen’d, crabbed Bird
Who fill’d the village with affright.
He swore this Bird was large and keen,
With claws of fire, and eye‐balls green;
That nothing rested, where she came;
That many pranks the monster play’d,
And many a timid trembling Maid
She brought to shame
For negligence, that was her own;
Turning the milk to water, clear,
And spilling from the cask, small‐beer;
Pinching, like fairies, harmless lasses,
And shewing Imps, in looking‐glasses;
Or, with heart‐piercing groan,
Along the church‐yard path, swift gliding,
Or, on a broomstick, witchlike, riding.
All listen’d trembling; For the Tale
Made cheeks of Oker, chalky pale;
The young a valiant doubt pretended;
The old believ’d, and all attended.
Now to DAME DOWSON he repairs
And in his arms, enfolds the Granny:
Kneels at her feet, and fondly swears
He will be true as any!
Caresses her with well feign’d bliss
And, fearfully, implores a Kiss
On the green turf distracted lying,
He wastes his ardent breath, in sighing.
The DAME was silent; for the Lover
Would, when she spoke,
She fear’d, discover
Her envious joke:
And she was too much charm’d to be
In haste, to end the Comedy!
Now WILLIAM, weary of such wooing,
Began, with all his might, hollooing:
When suddenly from ev’ry bush
The eager throngs impatient rush;
With shouting, and with boist’rous glee
DAME DOWSON they pursue,
And from the broad Oak’s canopy,
O’er moonlight fields of sparkling dew,
They bear in triumph the Old DAME,
Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 36