Waits to enthral them. Now the Lamp‐lighter
Mounts the slight ladder, nimbly venturous,
To trim the half‐fill’d lamp; while at his feet
The Pot‐boy yells discordant. All along
The sultry pavement, the Old Clothes‐man cries
In tone monotonous, and sidelong views
The area for his traffic: now the bag
Is slily open’d, and the half‐worn suit
(Sometimes the pilfer’d treasure of the base
Domestic spoiler) for one half its worth
Sinks in the green abyss. The Porter now
Bears his huge load along the burning way:
And the poor POET wakes from busy dreams,
To paint THE SUMMER MORNING.
THE FISHERMAN.
BY THE SAME.
ALONG the smooth and glassy stream
The little boat glides slow;
And, while beneath the rosy beam
Of setting sun the waters glow,
The Fisherman is singing gay
“Sweet is the hour of setting day.”
The net, expanded wide, displays
The snare of direful fate;
And where the finny victim strays,
The shafts of death unseen await;
And still the Fisherman is gay,
Singing the close of Summer’s day.
The zephyrs on the willow‐bed
In busy whispers fly,
And o’er his lonely peaceful shed
The mournful screech‐owls hov’ring cry:
Yet still the Fisherman can say
“How cheerful is the close of day!”
The rising Moon a quiv’ring light
Along the river throws;
Her soft beam, from the brow of night,
A still and mimic day bestows:
While on the smooth and liquid way
The silent Fisherman is gay.
The rosy dawn above the hill
Scatters the sev’ring cloud;
And myriads, flitting o’er the rill,
The daisied margin faintly shroud:
And from his hut, to greet the day,
The Fisherman comes blythe and gay.
Happy is he who never knew
The pomp and pride of state;
Who, stranger to the sordid crew,
Lives unmolested by the great;
Who labours through his little day,
And, pleas’d with labour, still is gay.
For what but FISHERMEN are those
Who spread the golden snare;
Who watch the scene of blest repose,
To scatter pain and ruin there;
Who vaunt their prosp’rous sunny day,
While others pine in grief away?
Poor Fisherman! would man, like thee,
Contented pass his hour;
Would those of loftier destiny
Forbear to use the rod of pow’r,
How many through Life’s busy day
Would sing, like thee, belov’d and gay!
THE POET’S GARRET.
BY THE SAME.
COME, sportive Fancy! Come with me, and trace
The POET’S Attic home! The lofty seat
Of th’ Heaven‐tutor’d Nine! The airy throne
Of bold Imagination, rapture‐fraught,
Above the herd of mortals!All around,
A solemn stillness seems to guard the scene,
Nursing the brood of thought; a thriving brood,
In the rich mazes of the cultur’d brain.
Upon thy altar, an old worm‐eat board,
The pannel of a broken door, or lid
Of a strong coffer, plac’d on three‐legg’d stool,
Stand quires of paper, white and beautiful;
Paper, by Destiny ordain’d to be
Scrawl’d o’er and blotted, dash’d and scratch’d, and torn,
Or mark’d with lines severe, or scatter’d wide
In rage impetuous! Sonnet, Song, and Ode;
Satire, and Epigram, and smart Charade;
Neat Paragraph, or legendary Tale
Of short and simple metre; each by turns
Will there delight the reader.
On the bed
Lies an old rusty “suit of solemn black,”
Brush’d thread‐bare, and with brown unglossy hue
Grown rather ancient. On the floor is seen
A pair of silken hose, whose footing bad
Shews they are travellers, but who still bear
Marks somewhat holy. At the scanty fire
A chop turns round; by packthread strongly held;
And on the blackened bar a vessel shines
Of batter’d pewter, just half‐fill’d, and warm,
With Whitbread’s beverage pure. The kitten purs,
Anticipating dinner; while the wind
Whistles through broken panes, and drifted snow
Carpets the parapet with spotless garb
Of vestal coldness.Now the sullen hour
(The fifth hour after noon) with dusky hand
Closes the lids of day. The farthing light
Gleams through the cobweb’d chamber, and THE BARD
Concludes his pen’s hard labour. Now he eats
With appetite voracious! Nothing sad
That the costly plate, nor the napkin fine,
Nor china rich, nor sav’ry viands greet
His eye, or palate. On his lyric board
A sheet of paper serves for table‐cloth;
A heap of salt is serv’d (Oh! heav’nly treat),
On Ode Pindaric! while his tuneful Puss
Scratches his slipper, for her fragment sweet,
And sings her love‐song, soft, yet mournfully.
Mocking the pillar Doric, or the roof
Of architecture Gothic, all around
The well‐known ballads flit, of Grub‐street fame!
The casement broke gives breath celestial
To the long “Dying Speech,” or gently fans
The love‐enflaming Sonnet. ‘Round about
Small scraps of paper lie, torn vestiges
Of an unquiet fancy: here a page
Of flights poetic; here a Dedication;
A list of Dramatis Personæ bold,
Of heroes yet unborn, and lofty dames,
Of perishable compound “light as air,”
But sentenc’d to oblivion!
On a shelf,
Yclept a mantle‐piece, a phial stands,
Half‐fill’d with potent spirits, clear and strong,
Which sometimes haunt the Poet’s restless brain,
And fill his mind with fancies whimsical.
Poor Poet! happy art thou, thus remov’d
From pride and folly! For, in thy domain
Thou cans’t command thy subjects, fill thy lines
With the all‐conqu’ring weapon Heav’n bestows
In the grey‐goose’s wing! which, tow’ring high,
Bears thy rich fancy to immortal fame!
THE SORROWS OF MEMORY.
BY THE SAME.
IN vain to me the howling deep
Stern Winter’s awful reign discloses:
In vain shall Summer zephyrs sleep
On fragrant beds of budding roses:
To me alike each scene appears,
Since thou hast broke my heart, or nearly;
While Mem’ry writes, in frequent tears,
That I have lov’d thee VERY DEARLY!
How many Summers pass’d away!
How many Winters, sad and dreary!
And still I taught thee to be gay,
Whene’er thy soul of life was weary:
When ling’ring sickness wrung thy breast,
And bow’d thee to the earth severely,
I strove to lull thy mind to rest;
For then I lov’d thee,Oh, HOW DEARLY!
And though the flush of joy no more
Shall, o’er my cheek its lustre throwing,
Bid giddy fools that cheek adore,
And talk of passions ever glowing,
Still to thy mind should time impart
A charm to bid it feel sincerely;
Nor idly wound a breaking heart
That lov’d thee LONG, and LOV’D THEE DEARLY!
Could gold thy truant fancy bind,
A faithful heart would still content me;
For, oh! to serve that heart unkind,
I gave THEE all that Fortune lent me!
In youth, when suitors round me press’d,
Who vow’d to love, and “love sincerely,”
When wealth could never charm my breast,
Tho’ thou wert poor, I LOV’D THEE DEARLY!
Seek not the fragile dreams of love:
Such fleeting phantoms will deceive thee;
They will but transient idols prove,
In wealth beguile, in sorrow leave thee.
Ah! dost thou hope the sordid mind,
When thou art poor, will feel sincerely?
Wilt thou in such the friendship find,
Which warm’d the heart that LOV’D THEE DEARLY?
Though fickle passions cease to burn
For Her, so long thy bosom’s treasure,
Ah! think that reason may return,
When far from thee my paths I measure:
Say, who will then thy conscience heal?
Or who will bid thy heart beat cheerly?
Or from that heart the mem’ry steal
Of HER who LOV’D THEE TRULYDEARLY?
When war shall rouze the brooding storm,
And horrors haunt thy thorny pillow;
When Fancy shall present my form
Borne on the wild and restless billow;
Oh! where wilt thou an helpmate find
Whose heart, like mine, shall throb sincerely?
Or who thy heart in spells shall bind,
When HER’S is broke that LOV’D THEE DEARLY?
When thou contending throngs shall court,
Where party zeal has often crown’d thee;
Perchance, of Fortune’s frowns the sport,
Caprice or cold neglect may wound thee!
Then wilt thou find no gen’rous heart
To bid thee bear misfortune cheerly;
No friend, in grief, to share a part
Like HER who lov’d thee LONG AND DEARLY!
Could I to distant regions stray,
From THEE my thoughts would never wander;
For, at the purpling close of day,
By some lone vagrant rill’s meander,
Each wand’ring bee, each chilling wind,
Would tell the heart that’s broken nearly,
In them, where’er they rove, to find
The faults of him I lov’d SO DEARLY!
I will not court thy fickle love;
Soon shall our fates and fortunes sever:
Far from thy sight will I remove,
And smiling sigh “adieu for ever!”
Give to the sordid friends thy days;
Still trust that they will act sincerely,
And when the specious mask decays,
Lament the heart that LOV’D THEE DEARLY!
For Time will swiftly journey on,
And Age with sickness haste to meet thee,
Friends prov’d deceitful will be gone,
When they no more with smiles can cheat thee:
Then wilt thou seek in vain to find
A faithful heart that beats sincerely,
A passion, cent’ring in THE MIND,
Which, scorning interest, LOV’D THEE DEARLY!
When in the grave this heart shall sleep,
No soothing dream will bless thy slumber;
For thou wilt often wake to weep,
And in despair my sorrows number!
My shade will haunt thine aching eyes,
My voice in whispers tell thee clearly
How COLD AT LAST THAT BOSOM LIES
Which lov’d THEE LONG, and LOV’D THEE DEARLY.
SONNET TO LIBERTY.
BY THE SAME.
O LIBERTY! transcendant and sublime,
Born on the mountain’s solitary crest,
NATURE thy nurse, thy SIRE exulting TIME,
TRUTH the pure inmate of thy glowing breast!
Oft dost thou wander, by the billowy deep,
Scatt’ring the sands that bind the level shore;
Or tow’ring, brave the desolating roar
That bids the tyrant Tempest lash the deep.
’Tis thine, where sanguinary Demons lour,
Amidst the thick’ning host to force thy way;
To quell the minions of oppressive pow’r,
And crush the vaunting NOTHINGS of a day.
Still shall the human mind thy name adore,
‘Till Chaos reign, and worlds shall be no more!
LINES TO SPRING. WRITTEN IN MAY 1800.
BY THE SAME.
LIFE‐GLOWING Season!odor‐breathing SPRING,
Deck’d in cerulean splendors,vivid, warm,
Shedding soft lustre on the rosy hours,
And calling forth their beauties! BALMY SPRING!
To thee the vegetating world begins
To pay fresh homage. Ev’ry Southern gale
Whispers thy coming; ev’ry tepid show’r
Revivifies thy charms. The mountain‐breeze
Wafts the ethereal essence to the vale,
While the low vale returns its fragrant hoard
With ten‐fold sweetness. When the Dawn unfolds
Its purple splendors ‘mid the dappled clouds,
Thy influence cheers the soul. When Noon uplifts
Its burning canopy, spreading the plain
Of Heav’ns own radiance with one vast of light,
Thou smil’st triumphant! Ev’ry little flow’r
Seems to exult in thee, delicious SPRING,
Luxuriant Nurse of Nature! By the stream,
That winds its swift course down the mountain’s side,
Thy progeny are seen; young primroses,
And all the varying buds of wildest birth,
Dotting the green slope gaily. On the thorn
Which arms the hedge‐row, the young birds invite
With merry minstrelsy, shrilly and maz’d
With winding cadences; now quick, now sunk
In the low‐twitter’d song. The Ev’ning‐sky
Reddens the distant main; catching the sail
Which slowly lessens, and with crimson hue
Varying the sea‐green wave; while the young Moon,
Scarce visible amid the warmer tints
Of Western splendors, slowly lifts her brow
Modest and icy‐lustred! O’er the plain
The light dews rise, sprinkling the thistle’s head,
And hanging its clear drops on the wild waste
Of broomy fragrance. Season of delight!
Thou soul‐expanding pow’r, whose wond’rous glow
Can bid all NATURE smile! Ah! why to ME
Come unregarded, undelighting still
This ever‐mourning bosom? So I’ve seen
The sweetest flow’rets bind the icy urn;
The brightest sun‐beams glitter on the grave;
And the soft zephyr kiss the troublous main,
With whisper’d murmurs. Yes, to ME, O SPRING!
Thou com’st unwelcom’d by a smile of joy;
To ME! slow‐with’ring to that silent grave
Where all is blank and dreary. Yet once more
The SPRING ETERNAL of the SOUL shall dawn,
Unvisited by clouds, by storms, by change,
Radiant and unexhausted! Then, ye buds,
Ye plumy minstrels, and ye balmy gales,
Adorn your little hour, and give your joys
To bless the fond world‐loving traveller,
Who s
miling measures the long flow’ry path
That leads to DEATH! For, to such wanderers,
Life is a busy, pleasing, cheerful dream,
And the last hour unwelcome: Not to ME,
O! not to ME, stern DEATH, art thou a foe;
Thou art the welcome messenger, which brings
A passportto a BLEST AND LONG REPOSE!
LINES, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY LADY, WHOM THE CRUELTY OF A SAVAGE HUSBAND COMPELLED TO QUIT HIS HOUSE
AND TO RETURN TO HER NATIVE LAND, TO A LOVELY BUT SMALL MANSION, THE ONLY POSSESSION OF WHICH HE HAD BEEN UNABLE TO DEPRIVE HER; SHEWING IN THIS MANNER THE GRATITUDE HE FELT, FOR HER HAVING ABANDONED ALL TO FOLLOW HIM.
WELCOME, thrice‐welcome, long‐regretted home!
Weary and faint I seek your shades again;
And hail your verdant groves, and peaceful bow’rs,
Poor senseless witnesses of happier hours!
Since last we parted, Sorrow’s chilling gloom
From this wan cheek hath chas’d the rose’s bloom;
Shrunk is this fragile form; Affliction’s dart
Hath drain’d the life‐blood from my sinking heart;
And nought but shadows of those hours remain.
Yet, ‘mid’st my woes, blest to return to Thee,
From whose dear shelter I was forc’d to fly,
Grateful to Heav’n I bend the pious knee,
And kiss thy daisied turf with many a holy sigh.
As in each well‐remember’d rustic face
The smiles of welcome eagerly I trace,
My poor forsaken heart with joy beats high,
And transient pleasure lights my dim‐grown eye.
With mingled feelings fondly I review
The scenes where once in youth I lov’d to stray;
Then to my mind did fairy visions play,
Of Friendship, ever‐kind, and ever‐true;
Of faithful Love; a gentle artless guest,
Cheating the sorrows of the saddest breast;
Then did my future days in prospect smile,
And Hope illusive ev’ry hour beguile,
Counting my life one blooming Summer’s‐day.
But false were all the promises she made;
And in its birth the vision ‘gan to fade.
Lamented Parents! O’er your closing bier
Fell the first off’ring of affliction’s tear:
Beneath, yon vernal sod in peace you sleep,
Whilst I in ceaseless anguish vainly weep.
Thou crystal stream, that o’er thy shining bed
Of glitt’ring pebbles roll’st so soft along,
Oft on thy banks, beneath the willow’s shade,
My weary limbs upon the grass I’ve laid,
And made the valley echo to my song:
Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 43