Ring out a loud funereal knell
The antique turrets shaking.
O! then how pale the BARON grew,
His eyes wide staring fearful!
While o’er the Virgin’s image fair
A sable veil was borne on air
Shading her dim eyes, tearful.
And, on her breast a clasp of pearl
Was stain’d with blood, fast flowing:
And round her lovely waist she wore
An amber zone; a cross she bore
Of rubies richly glowing.
The Bride, her dove‐like eyes to Heav’n
Rais’d, calling Christ to save her!
The cross now danc’d upon her breast;
The shudd’ring Priest his fears confest,
And benedictions gave her.
Upon the pavement sunk the Bride
Cold as a corpse, and fainting!
The pearly clasp, self‐bursting, show’d
Her beating side, where crimson glow’d
Three spots, of nature’s painting.
Three crimson spots, of deepest hue!
The BARON gaz’d with wonder:
For on his buried Lady’s side
Just three such drops had nature dyed,
An equal space asunder.
And now remembrance brought to view,
For Heaven the truth discloses,
The Baby, who had early died,
Bore, tinted on its little side,
Three spots as red as roses!
Now, ere the wedding‐day had past,
Stern GOLFRE, and his Bride
Walk’d forth to taste the ev’ning breeze
Soft sighing, mid the sombre trees,
That drest the mountain’s side.
And now, beneath the grove of Pine,
Two lovely Forms were gliding;
A Lady, with a beauteous face!
A Youth with stern, but manly, grace
Smil’d, as in scorn deriding.
Close, by the wond’ring Bride they pass’d,
The red Sun sinking slowly:
And to the little cross they hied
And there she saw them, side by side,
Kneeling, with fervour holy.
The little cross was golden ting’d
The western radiance stealing;
And now it bore a purple hue,
And now all black and dim it grew,
And still she saw them, kneeling.
White were their robes as fleecy snow
Their faces pale, yet chearful.
Their golden hair, like waves of light
Shone lust’rous mid the glooms of night;
Their starry eyes were tearful.
And now they look’d to Heav’n, and smil’d,
Three paly lamps descended!
And now their shoulders seem’d to bear
Expanding pinions broad and fair,
And now they wav’d in viewless air!
And so, the Vision ended.
GOLFRE PART V.
Now, suddenly, a storm arose,
The thunder roar’d, tremendous!
The lightning flash’d, the howling blast
Fierce, strong, and desolating, past
The Altitudes stupendous!
Rent by the wind, a fragment huge
From the steep summit bounded:
That summit, where the Peasant’s breast
Found, mid the snow, a grave of rest,
By GOLFRE’S poniard wounded.
Loud shrieks, across the mountain wild,
Fill’d up the pause of thunder:
The groves of Pine the lightning past,
And swift the desolating blast
Scatter’d them wide asunder.
The Castle‐turrets seem’d to blaze,
The lightning round them flashing;
The drawbridge now was all on fire,
The moat foam’d high, with furious ire,
Against the black walls dashing.
The Prison Tow’r was silver white,
And radiant as the morning;
Two angels’ wings were spreading wide,
The battlements, from side to side
And lofty roof adorning.
And now the Bride was sore afraid,
She sigh’d, and cross’d her breast;
She kiss’d her simple rosary,
Made of the mountain holly‐tree,
By sainted Fathers blest.
She kiss’d it once, she kiss’d it twice;
It seem’d to freeze her breast;
The cold show’rs fell from ev’ry tree,
They fell upon her rosary
Like nature’s tears, “twice blest!”
“What do you fear?” the BARON cried
For ZORIETTO trembled
“A WOLF,” she sigh’d with whisper low,
“Hark how the angry whirlwinds blow
“Like Demons dark assembled.
“That WOLF! which did my Lover slay!”
The BARON wildly started.
“That Wolf accurs’d!” she madly cried
“Whose fangs, by human gore were died,
“Who dragg’d him down the mountain’s side,
“And left me Broken hearted!”
Now GOLFRE shook in ev’ry joint,
He grasp’d her arm, and mutter’d
Hell seem’d to yawn, on ev’ry side,
“Hear me!” the frantic tyrant cried
“HEAR ME!” a faint voice utter’d.
“I hear thee! yes, I hear thee well!”
Cried GOLFRE, “I’ll content thee.
“I see thy vengeful eye‐balls roll
“Thou com’st to claim my guilty soul
“The FIENDS the FIENDS have sent thee!”
And now a Goatherd‐Boy was heard
Swift climbing up the mountain:
A Kid was lost, the fearful hind
Had rov’d his truant care to find,
By wood‐land’s side and fountain.
And now a murm’ring throng advanc’d,
And howlings echoed round them:
Now GOLFRE tried the path to pace,
His feet seem’d rooted to the place,
As though a spell had bound them.
And now loud mingling voices cried
“Pursue that WOLF, pursue him!”
The guilty BARON, conscience stung,
About his fainting DAUGHTER hung,
As to the ground she drew him.
“Oh! shield me Holy MARY! shield
“A tortur’d wretch!” he mutter’d.
“A murd’rous WOLF! O GOD! I crave
“A dark unhallow’d silent grave “
Aghast the Caitiff utter’d.
“’Twas I, beneath the GOATHERD’S bed
“The golden sword did cover;
“’Twas I who tore the quiv’ring wound,
“Pluck’d forth the heart, and scatter’d round
“The life‐stream of thy Lover.”
And now he writh’d in ev’ry limb,
And big his heart was swelling;
Fresh peals of thunder echoed strong,
With famish’d WOLVES the peaks among
Their dismal chorus yelling!
“O JESU Save me!” GOLFRE shriek’d
But GOLFRE shriek’d no more!
The rosy dawn’s returning light
Display’d his corse, a dreadful sight,
Black, wither’d, smear’d with gore!
High on a gibbet, near the wood
His mangled limbs were hung;
Yet ZORIETTO oft was seen
Prostrate the Chapel aisles between
When holy mass was sung.
And there, three lamps now dimly burn,
Twelve Monks their masses saying;
And there, the midnight bell doth toll
For quiet to the murd’rer’s soul
While all around are praying.
For CHARITY and PITY kind,
To gentle souls are given;
And MERCY is the sainted pow’r,
Which beams thro’ mis’ry’s darkest hour,
And lights the way, TO HEAVEN!
END.
The Wild Wreath
CONTENTS
DEDICATION TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUCHESS OF YORK.
TALES.
THE FOSTER‐CHILD.
CANTO I.
CANTO II.
EDWIN AND ELLEN.
THE LADY OF THE BLACK TOWER.
FUGITIVE PIECES.
LINES ADDRESSED TO EARL MOIRA.
TO LAURA.
LINES WRITTEN IN HAMPTON CHURCH‐YARD.
SUSAN.
THE FELON.
INGRATITUDE.
THE WINT’RY DAY.
TO AN INFANT SLEEPING.
TO THE ASPIN TREE.
THE OLD SHEPHERD AND THE SQUIRE.
THE MISER.
THE GAMESTER.
A LONDON SUMMER MORNING.
THE FISHERMAN.
THE POET’S GARRET.
THE SORROWS OF MEMORY.
SONNET TO LIBERTY.
LINES TO SPRING. WRITTEN IN MAY 1800.
LINES, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY LADY, WHOM THE CRUELTY OF A SAVAGE HUSBAND COMPELLED TO QUIT HIS HOUSE
TO A FRIEND, WITH SOME PAINTED FLOWERS.
EXCESS.
A WAR POEM.
AN EVENING MEDITATION BY THE SIDE OF A RIVER.
LINES WRITTEN ON THE 9TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1798.
THE DREAM.
LINES SENT TO A LADY, WITH AN ALMANACK IN A SILVER CASE.
THE MAD MONK.
TO A FALSE FRIEND.
THE TWILIGHT HOUR.
A RECEIPT FOR MODERN LOVE.
LESBIA AND HER LOVER.
INSCRIBED TO A ONCE DEAR FRIEND.
IMPROMPTU.
THE SAILOR’S DEPARTURE.
THE MINCE‐PYE.
WINKFIELD PLAIN; OR, A DESCRIPTION OF A CAMP IN THE YEAR 1800.
LINES SENT TO THE LOVELY AND ACCOMPLISHED MISS S* * * * * *, WITH SOME OF THE AUTHOR’S POETRY.
PAPA’S NOSE!
TO LOVE.
THE LOVER.
LINES BY THE HON. AND REV. T. J. TWISLETON.
TO A FRIEND, ON THE AUTHOR’S INTENTION TO QUIT ENGLAND FOR SEVERAL YEARS.
TO WILLIAM MOODY, ESQ. WITH AN EMPTY PURSE.
PROLOGUE, WRITTEN BY THE EARL OF MOUNT EDGCUMBE; AND SPOKEN BY HIM AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE, STRAW‐ BERRY‐HILL, NOV. 1800.
EPILOGUE, TO THE THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION AT STRAWBERRY‐ HILL.
ANACREONTIC.
MORNING.
BRING ME THE FLOWING CUP, DEAR BOY!
WINTER.
TO BACCHUS.
THE DAY IS PAST; THE SULTRY WEST
A KISS.
FAIRY VISIONS.
OBERON TO TITANIA.
TITANIA’S ANSWER TO OBERON.
TO GEORGIANA, ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH‐DAY.
ADDENDA.
HARVEST‐HOME.
SONNET
IL AMANTE TIMIDO.
SONNET ON READING A DESCRIPTION OF POPE’S GARDENS AT TWICKENHAM.
Please note: this collection contains several poems not written by Robinson. To retain the original structure of the collection, they have also been included.
DEDICATION TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUCHESS OF YORK.
MADAM,
THE common‐place rhapsody of a modern Dedication is as far beneath the exalted Admiration which Your Royal Highness must claim from every English bosom, as it is ill‐adapted to the task of gratifying such a heart as is known to be possessed by Your Royal Highness.
Emboldened, by your gracious permission, to lay before you these sketches of unclassical Poesy: as the most diminutive flower is equally dear to NATURE as the loftiest tree, I trust I may not be accused of impropriety in presenting the small wild Wreath to HER who is at once her pupil and darling!
Suffer me, Madam, at the same moment, to offer the thanks of a grateful Heart, for the most honourable and flattering event of my life, the permission to subscribe myself,
Madam,
Your Royal Highness’s
most faithful and devoted
humble Servant,
MARIA ELIZABETH ROBINSON.
Englefield Cottage, Surrey.
TALES.
THE FOSTER‐CHILD.
IN IMITATION OF SPENCER; BY THE LATE MRS. ROBINSON.
CANTO I.
‘MID Cambria’s hills a lowly cottage stood,
Circled with mossy tufts of sombre green;
A vagrant brook flow’d wildly thro’ the wood,
Flashing in lucid lapse the shades between;
And, cloth’d in mist, a distant hut was seen:
A village spire above the copse rose white;
And oft, when summer clos’d the day serene,
The broad horizon glisten’d golden‐bright,
Beskirted here and there with purple‐tinted light.
2.
Close by the river’s marge a ruin stands,
Which time, for ages, taught to moulder slow;
And there, as legends tell, the Druid bands
To SNOWDEN’S summit rais’d the dirge of woe,
Whene’er the warriors’ blood was bade to flow;
And when the yellow dawn, with weeping eye,
Above the ivy’d battlements ‘gan glow,
From the black towr’s their fading ghosts would cry,
Till the wide gates of day flam’d in the eastern sky.
3.
And there the minstrel’s airy harp would sound,
In soft vibrations musically sad;
And there a stream of light would quiver ‘round,
While spectres gleam’d, in shroudy vestments clad;
And many, hearing their loud shrieks, grew mad!
And still the little cot was cheerful seen;
And the poor foster‐mother, smiling, glad
That pride and pomp had ne’er her portion been,
But all her nights and days pass’d on in peace serene.
4.
Sprung from a race obscure, she little knew
The many snares that lurk in paths of state:
She, mountain‐cherish’d with the guileless few,
Nor fear’d the cunning nor obeyed the great;
Her bosom tranquil, and her soul elate!
She from soft slumbers merrily awoke
’Ere morn with humid fingers op’d her gate;
And listen’d, cheerful, while the Woodman’s stroke
Levell’d the loftiest pine, or cleft the proudest oak.
5.
And happy had the foster‐mother been,
But that her wedded mate was old and poor;
Tho’, as no splendid days the pair had seen,
They envied not the rich their shining store,
The costly banquet, nor the marble floor.
Pleas’d with her toil, the nurse of lusty Health,
She found contentment, and she sought no more;
While Time, which conquers e’en the brave by stealth,
Scatter’d ‘mid Folly’s train the miseries of wealth.
6.
Full sixty summers had old OWEN seen,
And now his hair grew whiter ev’ry day;
And he, who once a sturdy hind had been,
Now found his strength was wasting quick away,
While creeping Palsy shook his feeble clay;
And now came Discontent, with pining mien,
And eager Avarice, which, gossips say,
Is age’s bitter curse; and so, I ween,
Old OWEN found the hag, the nurse of envious spleen:
7.
And now he hobbled through the splashy lane,
While the night‐breeze his weary bones would shake;
And now the mountain’s summit to attain
He panted loud, a
s tho’ his heart would break,
And sorely did his limbs begin to ache:
And when the snow was drifted, or the rain
Swell’d the small rivulet to foaming rage,
He felt the chilling mist in every vein,
And, like a wounded deer, droop’d languid o’er the plain.
8.
And sometimes to the ruin he would hie,
And there, upon a mossy fragment, wait,
Watching the red blaze of the ev’ning sky,
Gilding with flaming gold the roofs of state,
The fretted column, and the trophied gate:
And thus he ponder’d on the wrecks of Time,
While o’er his head the bird of gloom would cry,
And all around the black’ning ivy climb,
Shadowing the sacred Haunts of Solitude sublime.
9.
And then the varying destiny of Man
Employ’d his thoughts till twilight’s veil was spread;
And much he murmur’d at the chequered plan,
And many a tear, repining sore, he shed;
And now in mute reflection bow’d his head,
With arms enwoven, and with downcast eyes,
The page of human misery he read,
Where Wealth for Honesty its thralment tries
While at Oppression’s feet the child of Virtue dies.
10.
Then fancy led him to the battle’s rage,
Where flush’d Ambition rear’d its sanguine crest,
Where men with men, like tigers, fierce engage;
The brother’s sword against the brother’s breast:
And then he rais’d his eyes to heav’n, and bless’d;
For blood had never stain’d his trembling hand,
But holy Innocence, by Pity drest,
Spurning the pride of insolent command,
Had nerv’d his shuddering heart to scorn th’ oppressor’s brand.
11.
Thus did he ruminate; while many a tale,
Told by the gabbling gossips of the plain,
O’er his lean cheek diffused a deadly pale,
Bidding him seek his cheerful home again:
Now fancy bade him ken the warrior train
Winding the mazes of the merry dance,
With pages silken‐clad, and ladies vain,
And banners thickly pierc’d with many a lance,
And palfries milky‐white, that champing loud did prance;
12.
While airy harps, by sainted Druids smote,
Pour’d the soft cadence from their golden strings;
And groans of murder’d chieftains seem’d to float,
O’er Cambria’s tow’ring pride, on Echo’s wings:
And now the gushing of a thousand springs
Call’d forth the elfin tribes, in dew bedight;
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