Ah, No!
’Tis where neglected Virtue sighs;
Where Hope, exhausted, silent dies;
Where Merit starves, by Pride opprest,
‘Till ev’ry stream that warms the breast
Forbears to flow.
TO AN INFANT SLEEPING.
BY THE SAME.
SWEET baby boy! thy soft cheek glows
An emblem of tile living rose:
Thy breath a zephyr seems to rise;
And placid are thy half‐clos’d eyes;
And silent is thy snowy breast,
Which gently heaves in transient rest;
And dreaming is thy infant brain
Of pleasure, undisturb’d by pain.
Soon shall thy youth to sorrow rise;
And tears shall dim thy half‐clos’d eyes;
And storms will fade that living rose;
And keen Unkindness wound repose:
Soon will thy slumbers painful be;
And thou wilt watch and weep, like me;
And thou wilt shrink, with fear aghast,
From wild Misfortune’s chilling blast.
Ah! then no more in balmy sleep
Shall Mem’ry fond her garland steep;
No more shall visions, sweetly gay,
Sport in the coming beams of day;
No more thy downy pillow be
A pillow, BOY, of down to thee,
For many a thorn shall ruthless Care
In envious rancour scatter there!
SWEET BABY BOY! then sleep awhile:
For Youth will never wake to smile;
Time flings its poisons ‘round the bed
Where Manhood lays its weary head;
The Summer day of life will lour
As long, poor Boy, as Winter’s hour
Unless the Pilot FORTUNE brings
The magic of her GOLDEN WINGS.
TO THE ASPIN TREE.
BY THE SAME.
WHY tremble so, broad Aspin Tree?
Why shake thy leaves, ne’er ceasing?
At rest thou never seem’st to be!
For, when the air is still and clear,
Or when the nipping gale, encreasing,
Shakes from thy boughs soft twilight’s tear,
Thou tremblest still, broad Aspin Tree,
And never tranquil seem’st to be!
Beneath thy shade at sultry noon
I oft have sat, deep musing;
And oft have watch’d the rising Moon
Above the dusky summit shine,
A placid light diffusing!
Though all around a calm divine
The rest of Nature seem’d to be,
Still did’st thou tremble, Aspin Tree!
Hadst thou sensation, I should say
Thou wert, like me, uncheerly
Ordain’d to waste Life’s hour away,
Indignant at the vulgar crowd,
And doom’d to feel severely,
Scorning the dull, the base, the proud:
But thou art senseless, Aspin Tree;
Then, wherefore thus a trembler be?
Who shall molest thee, shiv’ring tree?
Who shall thy branches sever?
The seasons change, and oft to thee
Returning Spring shall give its sweets,
And still thou tremblest ever.
Each whispering gale thy bosom meets
As though it came to menace thee;
O beauteous trembling Aspin Tree!
Hadst thou e’er lov’d, or even felt
Warm Friendship’s ardor glowing,
Hadst thou in pity learnt to melt,
Or to another’s anguish gave
The tear, spontaneous flowing:
Then, sighing, might thy branches wave
And many a gentle show’r from thee
Might fall in tears, sweet Aspin Tree!
Hadst thou e’er known INGRATITUDE,
Thou wou’dst have cause to tremble;
For, in Misfortune’s tempest rude,
The deadliest foe the heart can find
Is he who CAN DISSEMBLE!
He who enthrals the willing mind,
And bids the captive bosom be
A tremblerlike the Aspin Tree!
THE OLD SHEPHERD AND THE SQUIRE.
A FABLE.
BY THE SAME.
DEEP in a solitary glen,
Far from the cheerful haunts of men;
By poverty opprest, and taught
The lonely task of silent thought,
A shepherd liv’d: a surly wight
As ever pac’d the mountain’s height.
He was as cold, and eke as gray
As morning on a winter‐day:
And gloomy as November’s sky,
Old Simon mark’d life’s shadows fly;
And often, from the mountain’s side,
The manor‐house old Simon spied
The rich domains of corn, and fields,
And all that smiling Nature yields;
And often, as he look’d, he sigh’d,
That Heav’n to him such gifts denied!
The Squire had mark’d the ancient swain,
And felt compassion for his pain:
For not like many squires was he,
Too grand to hear, too high to see!
He was not deaf, when sorrow sigh’d,
Nor blind, when poverty met pride;
Nor did he think the honest poor
Too low to pass his lofty door.
He was a squire, as fame records,
Worth twenty squiresnay, twenty lords!
A squire the Muse would proudly sing,
Had Heaven design’d him fora king!
This Squire (or so the story’s told)
Was fond of fashions somewhat old:
Such as in good Queen BESS’S days,
Bought something more than servile praise;
Such as won hearts and made them gay
With many a cheerful holiday.
He did not, when the winter came,
Cheer his old tenants witha name:
He did not fly from Christmas fare
To feast with empty foolselsewhere:
He did not let his steward play
The tyrant of his little day;
While at the gaming‐table he
A very vassal chose to be:
He did not leave his wife at home,
With other wives abroad to roam;
And, while she squander’d thousands, snore,
And dream oflosing thousands more:
He did not give to fools a treat,
While Genius had not bread to eat!
Oft at the gate, that open stood
To travellers, through a neighbouring wood
He mark’d old Simon: (for, beside
The gate, a brook was seen to glide;
And there, beneath an alder’s shade,
Simon, each morn, his breakfast made.)
And often, at the noon of day,
He watch’d him pace the sultry way:
At ev’nings’ hour he saw him tread
The bleak hill to his rushy shed;
And oft he heard him loud deplore
That he was old, and weak, and poor.
The Squire, who felt he was A MAN,
Revolv’d in silence Nature’s plan:
He felt that wealth, and pride, and pow’r,
Were treasures of a transient hour;
That Chance allotted to his care
What Reason meant for all to share:
He felt that he was nothing more
Than the old shepherd, weak and poor,
Excepting by the dross which Heav’n,
For useful purposes, had giv’n.
Near the large manor‐house, a cot
Was doom’d to mend old Simon’s lot:
The Squire proposed that straightway he
The tenant of this cot should be.
Simon w
as thankful;”Yet,” said he,
“If I’d a little shrubbery,
“A bit of garden, full of flow’rs
“Would charm away my summer hours:
“And oft, amidst o’erhanging trees,
“I might enjoy the cooling breeze.”
The Squire complies, and ‘round the cot
A young plantation grac’d the spot.
Now, Simon wish’d a brook were seen,
Gliding the shady maze between:
And, from the torrent’s rushing way,
A little rill was taught to stray
For still the Squire his humour pleas’d,
And Simon’s varying fancy seiz’d.
Simon was grateful: yet he swore
He’d be content with one thing more;
A little field, enclos’d and fair,
Where he might breathe the morning air.
The ground was fenc’d!He wish’d to keep
‘A cow, and half‐a‐dozen sheep.’
And still the kind good‐natur’d Squire
Indulg’d him in his heart’s desire.
Thus favour’d, still he was inclin’d
To bear a discontented mind:
‘The wind was nipping,’ and he found
‘The cottage stood on Northern ground:
‘The soil was coarse, and bleak the air,
‘And loud the tempest rattled there:
‘The field was scarcely large enough
‘To plant the needful garden stuff.’
(And he was fond of Nature’s store,
Therefore his field was planted o’er!)
‘The brook, at times, would overflow;
‘And the trees, waving to and fro,
‘Disturb’d his rest: the cow and sheep
‘Would stray along the upland steep;
‘And he was old, and could not bear
‘The endless toil of watching there.’
Now, to the manor‐house remov’d,
Old Simon ev’ry comfort prov’d.
Yet he grew sick, and every day
He found his spirits waste away:
He wanted company; he sigh’d
That freedom was to him denied;
He found that indolence and ease
An active soul can never please;
That labour only could dispense
The glow of fervor o’er his sense,
Which apathy could never know,
Nor splendid luxury bestow:
He also found that oft the Squire
Would mention this and that desire;
Would hint that Simon should not be
Unthankful for his destiny;
That few had known a change so sweet,
And fewer still such friends would meet;
Nay, once he utter’d words most hateful,
Such as “unworthy,” and “ungrateful,”
Words which the proud heart cannot bear,
Whatever stings are planted there;
Words that can sharper pangs impose
Than poverty, with all its woes!
Near, in the garden, legends say,
A PEA‐HEN scream’d at dawn of day:
Old Simon heard the hideous strain,
And sigh’d for solitude again.
The Squire was fond of sports, and he
Made Simon bear him company:
Drinking was too the Squire’s delight
All day,and sometimes half the night.
The Squire would smoke:and Simon ne’er
Tobacco in his life could bear:
Yet he must smoke, though almost choaking,
Because the Squire was fond of smoking.
Old Simon now began to find
That pleasure centres in the mind;
That, e’en in plenitude of joys,
A very trifle bliss destroys:
He prov’d that pure Delight is found
To dwell within a narrow bound;
That Peace may smile, and cheerful be,
E’en in the hut of poverty;
While Splendor, Sorrow, Scorn, and Hate,
May thrive in gilded halls of state:
He felt the slav’ry which annoys,
With chains of gold, Ambition’s joys;
That man must ever groan to find
That chain about his active mind!
Thus Simon pin’d once more to be
The son of lab’ring poverty;
And, to regain his wonted pleasure,
Sought Freedom, as Man’s proudest treasure.
THE MISER.
BY THE SAME.
MISER! why countest thou thy treasure,
Thy ill‐got hoards of paltry gold?
Feel’st thou a throb of secret pleasure,
When Conscience whispers, soft and low,
“These are the spoils which from oppression flow
“For which thy fame is sold!”
Why dost thou doat on useless ore?
Thou hast no joy in all thy wealth:
Thou never heard’st the grateful poor
Bless thy benevolence, and cry,
While thankfulness illum’d the up‐raised eye,
“Heav’n grant thee years of health!”
Why dost thou, in the glooms of night,
While loud the tempest rages wide,
Tremble with Horror’s wild affright,
And, grasping ev’ry shining woe,
To some dark nook with fault’ring footsteps go,
The useless heaps to hide?
Dost thou not hear the thunder’s voice
Reproving Heav’n’s just vengeance speak?
Dost thou not hear the fiend’s rejoice,
While on thy tott’ring roof obscure
The tears of outrag’d Nature, ‘whelming, pour,
To chill thy wither’d cheek?
See thy lean frame! thy sunken eyes!
Behold the victor DEATH! and know
That when the wretched MISER dies
No bosom pities: on his tomb
No graceful bud of Spring shall ever bloom,
No tear of Friendship flow!
Forgotten; or, if not, abhorr’d:
Can all thy treasures, left behind,
Bid Memory thy toil reward;
Or meek Religion breathe to Heaven
One prayer that thou may’st ever be forgiv’n
O, Miscreant unkind?
Thou who would’st live belov’d, carest,
Let sweet humanity he given
By thee to e’en a foe distrest:
But, if the child of Virtue sighs,
When Genius to thy open threshold flies,
Know, ’tis the path to Heaven.
THE GAMESTER.
BY THE SAME.
1.
OH! What is he, whose haggard eye
Scarce dares to meet the morning’s ray;
Who trembling would, but cannot, fly
From MAN, and from the busy day?
Mark how his lip is fever’d o’er!
Behold his cheek, how deathly it appears!
See how his bloodshot eye‐balls pour
A burning torrent of unpitied tears!
2.
Now watch the varying gesture wild!
See how his tortur’d bosom heaves!
Behold Misfortune’s wayward child,
For whom no kindred nature grieves!
Despis’d, suspected, ruin’d, lost;
His fortune, health, and reputation, flown;
On Mis’ry’s stormy ocean tost,
Condemn’d to curse his fateand curse alone!
3.
Once were his prospects bright and gay,
And Independence bless’d his hours;
His was the smooth and sunny way
Where tip‐toe Pleasure scatter’d flow’rs;
Love bound his brow with thornless sweets,
And smiling Friendship fill’d his cup of joy:
Now, not
a friend the victim meets,
For, like a Wolf, he wanders to destroy
4.
All day, upon a couch of thorn,
His weary fev’rish limbs recline;
All night, distracted and forlorn,
He hovers round the fateful shrine,
Eager to seize with grasping hands
The slender pittance of the fool,
He links himself with caitiff bands,
And learns the lesson of the GAMESTER’S SCHOOL.
5.
One hour, elate with ill‐got gold,
And dazzled by the shining ore,
In plenitude of joys behold
The prodigal display his store!
The next, in poverty and fear,
He hides him, trembling at approaching fate,
While greedy creditors appear,
And with remorseless rage lurk round his gate.
Then comes the horror‐breeding hour:
While recreant SUICIDE attends;
And Madness, with impetuous pow’r,
The scene of desolation ends!
Upon his grave no parent mourns,
No widow’d love laments with graceful woe;
No joyful gleam for him returns;
For Heav’n denies that peace his frenzy lost below!
A LONDON SUMMER MORNING.
BY THE SAME.
WHO has not wak’d to list the busy sounds
Of SUMMER MORNING, in the sultry smoke
Of noisy LONDON?On the pavement hot
The sooty Chimney‐boy, with dingy face
And tatter’d covering, shrilly bawls his trade,
Rousing the sleepy House‐maid. At the door
The Milk‐pail rattles, and the tinkling bell
Proclaims the Dustman’s office; while the street
Is lost in clouds imperious. Now begins
The din of Hackney‐coaches, Waggons, Carts;
While Tin‐men’s shops, and noisy Trunk‐makers,
Knife‐grinders, Coopers, squeaking Cork‐cutters,
Fruit‐barrows, and the hunger‐giving cries
Of Vegetable‐venders, fill the air.
Now ev’ry Shop displays its varied trade;
And the fresh‐sprinkled pavement cools the feet
Of early walkers. At the private door
The ruddy House‐maid twirls the busy mop,
Annoying the smart ‘prentice, or neat girl
Tripping with band‐box lightly. Now the Sun
Darts burning splendor on the glitt’ring pane,
Save where the canvas awning throws a shade
On the gay merchandise. Now spruce and trim
In shops, where beauty smiles with industry,
Sits the smart damsel, while the passenger
Peeps through the window, watching ev’ry charm.
Now Pastry dainties catch the eyes minute
Of hummy insects, while the slimy snare
Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 42