Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson
Page 41
Was, like the emerald, bright and green;
And now ’twas of a troubled hue,
While “Deeper, deeper,” sang the crew.
13.
Slow advanced the morning‐light,
Slow they plough’d the wavy tide;
When, on a cliff of dreadful height,
A castle’s lofty tow’rs they spied:
The Lady heard the sailor‐band,
Cry, “Lady, this is Holy Land.
14.
“Watch no more the glitt’ring spray;
“Watch no more the weedy sand;
“Watch no more the star of day;
“Lady, this is Holy Land:
“This castle’s lord shall welcome thee;
“Then Lady, Lady, cheerful be!”
15.
Now the castle‐gates they pass;
Now across the spacious square,
Cover’d high with dewy grass,
Trembling steals the Lady fair:
And now the castle’s lord was seen,
Clad in a doublet gold and green.
16.
He led her thro’ the gothic hall,
With bones and skulls encircled ‘round;
Oh, let not this thy soul appal!”
He cried, “for this is Holy Ground.”
He led her thro’ the chambers lone,
‘Mid many a shriek, and many a groan.
17.
Now to the banquet‐room they came:
Around a table of black stone
She mark’d a faint and vapoury flame;
Upon the horrid feast it shone
And there, to close the madd’ning sight,
Unnumber’d spectres met the light.
18.
Their teeth were like the brilliant, bright;
Their eyes were blue as saphire clear;
Their bones were of a polish’d white;
Gigantic did their ribs appear!
And now the Knight the Lady led,
And plac’d her at the table’s head!
19.
Just now the Lady WOKE:for she
Had slept upon the lofty tow’r,
And dreams of dreadful phantasie
Had fill’d the lonely moon‐light hour:
Her pillow was the turret‐stone,
And on her breast the pale moon shone:
20.
But now a real voice she hears:
It was her lover’s voice;for he,
To calm her bosom’s rending fears,
That night had cross’d the stormy sea:
“I come,” said he, “from Palestine,
“To prove myself, sweet Lady, THINE.
FUGITIVE PIECES.
LINES ADDRESSED TO EARL MOIRA.
BY THE SAME.
IN these degenerate times the Muses blend
For thee a wreath, their guardian and their friend;
Thee, lib’ral MOIRA, in whose glowing mind
Exulting Nature ev’ry grace combin’d!
Honour’s nice sense, by judgment wisely taught;
And hardy Valour, with soft Pity fraught;
TRUTH without ostentation; and a soul,
Thro’ which the purest tides of Feeling roll;
And inborn Dignity, which springs elate
Above the tinsel of mere lofty state!
Blest is the isle where Virtue such as thine
Waves its broad standard o’er the MUSE’S shrine
Blest is the hour when manly feelings own
A PATRIOT’S laurels twining round a THRONE!
With honest zeal when proud affections blend;
And courtly splendors dignify the Friend,
The gen’rous friend, whom int’rest cannot bind,
But whose strong ruler is HIS GOD‐LIKE MIND!
Where’er I trace thee, through Life’s varying day,
I mark attending Virtues lead thy way:
I mark the mild Affections following near;
Now deck’d in smiles, now bath’d in pity’s tear.
Beside thee VALOR moves with giant crest,
While Mercy’s ensign hides his iron breast;
And TIME, with glowing pen, on Nature’s page,
Transcribes thy deeds, to charm a future age!
MOIRA! accept the Muse’s grateful songs;
For all THE MUSE can give to THEE belongs!
The flow’rs of Fancy at thy bidding rise,
And their wild fragrance blend, with purest dyes.
No flatt’rer’s voice the labour’d cadence flings;
No Syren mischief witches while she sings;
No hireling slave contaminates the tide
Where bright PIERIAN fountains proudly glide;
The Wreath that suits with thee may Virtue claim,
’Tis BRITAIN’S offering,’tis the WREATH OF FAME.
Take from A STRANGER Muse the song sincere;
The wild note greets time with a mingling tear:
Take from her trembling hand a thornless flow’r,
And wear it on thy breast through Life’s dull hour:
Haply, when Contemplation sighs to scan
The weedy pathway mark’d for wretched man,
This humble Flow’r may fragrance still impart;
If not to charm, to harmonize thy heart;
To prove that, e’en where darkest ills are found,
Where weedy mischiefs poison while they wound,
The sweetest emblem which the mind can know
Is the pure bud which Kindness taught to blow;
The bud which in thy wreath its leaves shall rear,
Bath’d in the lustre of a grateful tear.
TO LAURA.
Written by the late ROBERT MERRY, Esq. A. M.
AND MEMBER OF THE ACADEMY DELLA CRUSCA AT FLORENCE.
SWEET is the calmly‐cheerful hour
When, from mute Midnight’s ebon tow’r,
The moon escapes, and sportive flies
O’er the gay garden of the skies,
Where NATURE’S loveliest flow’rs unfold
The starry buds of burning gold:
The weary winds pant on the deep,
Or amongst the cradling billows sleep:
All is delight!But, ah, in vain
Such varying glories fill the plain;
For, see! the frenzied Lover speeds
From the bright skies and glittering meads,
From gaudy hills, enchanted bow’rs,
From whisp’ring gales and perfum’d show’rs;
He seeks the lonely pensive cave
Where he may think, and weep, and rave,
And muse upon the murd’rous eye:
Then, there he calls down from on high
Unhallow’d curses, wild and dread,
Upon his rival’s hated head.
He wraps his thought in sablest gloom,
And lures a transport from the tomb,
Where he may hope to rest at last,
When Passion’s rending pangs are past.
But, oh! if he should chance to hear
The warblings of the bird sincere,
Who loves her secret pangs to throw
In all the melodies of woe,
His nerves relax,his trembling lid
By Pity’s pearly veil is hid,
Subjected agonies depart,
And soft’ning sorrow soothes his heart.
So I, dear Laura, long suppress’d
The thorn of anguish in my breast:
Lost to each social solace gay,
And heedless of the blooms of May;
And heedless of the haughty sun,
When, to his mad meridian run,
He lifts his red refulgent shield,
And fires the Heaven’s eternal field:
I have from each allurement fled,
To where incumbent darkness spread;
Trod the black torrent’s gloomy side,
And held fierce converse with t
he tide:
But when thy numbers seiz’d my soul,
I found the thrilling sadness roll
In sweet similitude of joy,
That could my deadliest griefs destroy.
They stole upon my ‘tranced sense,
As the fresh gales of morn dispense
New life to ev’ry flow’r that fades
In Solitude’s neglected glades.
Then frown not on my daring lay,
That strives to paint the golden day;
To tell the lustre of the rose,
And thy resistless charms disclose:
But think, when in the grave’s cold sleep
My wretched eyes shall cease to weep,
And, senseless of the wint’ry breeze,
This sad, this burning heart shall freeze,
Then shall my ling’ring verse declare
How much I priz’d thee, good and fair!
What tenderness my soul conceiv’d!
How deeply for thy suff’rings griev’d!
While future lovers, future bards, shall join,
To pour in Laura’s praise their melodies divine.
LINES WRITTEN IN HAMPTON CHURCH‐YARD.
IN THE SPRING OF 1801.
IN yonder skies the stealing shades of Even
Soften the glories of departing day;
Light feath’ry clouds o’erspread the face of Heaven;
The distant spire reflects the gilded ray,
And o’er the silent wave the ling’ring sun‐beams play.
Soft on the ear, with mournful magic, dwells
The less’ning cadence of the village‐bells,
Borne by faint echo o’er the river’s breast;
While, wearied with the labours of the day,
To his dear cot the hedger bends his way,
As the low song of birds proclaims the hour of rest.
O Stranger! is thy anxious mind perplex’d
By worldly cares? By human folly vex’d?
Visit these scenes, whose gentle influence move
To kinder thoughts of charity and love!
Is thy heart sad? This balmy ev’ning air
Might whisper comfort to the worst despair
Might tune the rudest passions into peace,
And bid all jarring cares, all human sorrows, cease.
But not to Thee, who sleep’st yon’ stone beneath,
Can scenes like these a gleam of joy impart,
Or waken to delight thy frozen heart!
The ling’ring sun‐beam lights thy simple grave,
And bids the turf with life and beauty glow,
Yet fails to warm the breast that lies below!
No more for thee the blushing flow’rets breathe,
And sparkling rays illume the peaceful wave:
Heedless the birds in tuneful chorus sing,
And with melodious concert hail the Spring;
While vainly Friendship, o’er thy mournful bier,
Sheds with some short‐liv’d flow’r the melancholy tear.
Oft, EMMA, on thy virtues and thy fate,
At silent eve, I love to meditate;
Fondly retracing to my burthen’d heart
The hours that join’d us, and that bade us part.
And oft I’m borne, in thought, to yonder skies,
Where, ‘mongst departed spirits pure and wise,
Thy well‐tried modest worth receives a heavenly prize.
Such thoughts as these my pensive heart beguile,
And soothe me, as I sadly pause awhile
To view the peaceful spot where thou art laid.
Perchance, ere long, I in my turn shall rest,
Within the precincts of its hallow’d breast,
And share with thee thy cold and silent bed!
Yet, whatsoe’er my doom, I’ll ne’er repine,
If, when that hour arrives, my heart is pure as thine.
SUSAN.
THE FELON.
BY M. G. LEWIS, ESQ.
OH, mark his wan and hollow cheek! and mark his eye‐balls’ glare!
And mark his teeth in anguish clench’d, the anguish of despair!
Know, since three days, his penance borne, yon Felon left a jail,
And since three days no food has pass’d those lips so parch’d and pale.
“ Where shall I turn?” the wretch exclaims; “Where hide my shameful head?”
“How fly from scorn? Oh! how contrive to earn my honest bread?
“This branded hand would gladly toil; but, when for work I pray,
“Who sees this mark, ‘A Felon!’ cries, and loathing turns away.
“This heart has greatly err’d, but now would fain revert to good:
“This hand has deeply sinn’d, but yet has ne’er been stain’d with blood:
“For work, or alms, in vain I sue; the scorners both deny:
“I starve; I starveThen what remains?This choice; to sin, or die!
“Here Virtue spurns me with disdain; there Pleasure spreads her snare:
“Strong habit drags me back to vice; and, urg’d by fierce Despair,
“I strive, while Hunger gnaws my heart, to fly from shame in vain!
“World, ’tis thy cruel will! I yield, and plunge in guilt again.
“There’s Mercy in each ray of light that mortal eyes e’er saw;
“There’s Mercy in each breath of air that mortal lips e’er draw;
“There’s Mercy both for bird and beast in GOD’S indulgent plan;
“There’s Mercy for each creeping thing;but MAN HAS NONE FOR MAN!
“Ye proudly honest! when ye heard my wounded conscience groan,
“Had generous hand, or feeling heart, one glimpse of Mercy shown,
“That act had made, from burning eyes, sweet tears of virtue roll,
“Had fix’d my heart, assur’d my faith, and Heav’n had gain’d a Soul!”
INGRATITUDE.
BY MRS. ROBINSON.
WHAT wounds more deep than arrows keen,
Piercing the heart subdu’d?
What renders life a dreary scene?
Thy sting, INGRATITUDE!
For ev’ry pain that man can know
Has still an antidote for woe,
Save where INGRATITUDE is found
Giving its deep and deadly wound.
Does Love neglected, pining, sad,
On ev’ry joy obtrude?
Does pleasure fly the bosom glad
Stung by INGRATITUDE?
Oh, yes! For what is life to those
Who feel no hour of soft repose?
Who find in ev’ry path a weed
Which bids the feeling bosom bleed!
HELL‐BORN INGRATITUDE! to thee
All lesser evils bend;
Thou potent shaft of destiny,
Where all her poisons end!
The wretch, who smarts beneath thy fang,
Day after day endures the pang;
And finds no balm, alas! will cure
Thy wound, for ever DEEP and SURE!
Where’er in Life’s precarious scene
My weary feet have stray’d,
Thou hast my taunting follower been,
In sunshine and in shade!
In poverty I found thee ever
The bonds of social feelings sever;
And when I sank, by grief subdu’d,
I felt thy wound, INGRATITUDE.
I found thee in the smile of Love;
In Friendship’s sacred vest;
In rustic meekness saw thee move,
Pois’ning the untaught breast.
When Fortune, often dull and blind,
Heap’d splendor on the vulgar mind,
Scatt’ring on Pride and Vice her favour;
INGRATITUDE I found thee ever!
Thou imp infernal! bane of rest!
Turn from my aching heart;
Nor still, in artful kindness drest,
Thy fatal stings impart:
This bosom, long assail’d by thee,
No more thy victim slave shall be,
No more shall be by thee subdu’d,
Thou worst of fiends, INGRATITUDE!
THE WINT’RY DAY.
BY THE SAME.
1.
IS it in mansions rich and gay,
On downy beds, or couches warm,
That NATURE owns the WINT’RY DAY,
Or shrinks to hear the howling storm?
Ah, No!
’Tis on the bleak and barren heath,
Where Mis’ry feels the shaft of Death,
As to the dark and freezing grave
Her children,not a friend to save,
Unheeded go.
2.
Is it in chambers silken drest,
At tables which profusions heap:
Is it on pillows soft to rest,
In dreams of long and balmy sleep?
Ah, No!
’Tis in the rushy hut obscure,
Where Poverty’s low sons endure;
And, scarcely daring to repine,
On a straw pallet, mute, recline,
O’erwhelm’d with woe!
3.
Is it to flaunt in warm attire?
To laugh, and feast, and dance and sing?
To crowd around the blazing fire?
And make the roof with revels ring?
Ah, No!
’Tis on the prison’s flinty floor,
’Tis where the deaf’ning whirlwinds roar;
’Tis when the sea‐boy on the mast
Hears the waves bounding to the blast,
And looks below!
4.
Is it beneath the taper’s ray
The banquet’s luxury to share,
And waste the midnight hour away
With Fashion’s splendid vot’ries there?
Ah, No!
’Tis in the cheerless naked room
Where Misery’s victims wait their doom;
Where a fond mother famish’d dies,
While forth a frantic father flies,
Man’s desp’rate foe!
5.
Is it to lavish fortune’s store
In vain, fantastic, empty joys!
To scatter ‘round the glittering ore,
And covet Folly’s gilded toys?
Ah, No!
’Tis in the silent spot obscure,
Where, forc’d all sorrows to endure,
Pale GENIUS learns (OH! LESSON SAD!)
To court the vain, and on the bad,
FALSE PRAISE BESTOW!
6.
Is it where gamesters, thronging round,
Their shining heaps of wealth display?
Where CHANCE’S giddy tribes are found
Sporting their giddy hours away?