Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson

by Mary Robinson

  What time bright Phoebus, in his chariot bold,

  Just ting’d thy tiny waves with orient gold;

  Or when the wat’ry moon‐beam softly play’d

  Upon thy breast, and ev’ry little pow’r

  Shone bright, adorning Ev’ning’s balmy hour;

  Oft, wrapt in silent pleasure, have I stray’d,

  Musing, the while, of Love, and Peace, and Joy;

  Alas, that Sorrow’s storms should such fair scenes destroy!

  O thou, who gav’st those scenes their fairest grace!

  How thou art chang’d these dim‐grown eyes can speak,

  And the pale hue that “lord’s it” on my cheek.

  Belov’d * * * * *! When Fancy would retrace

  Those long‐past hours of peace, methinks they seem

  Like the sweet passing fancies of a dream,

  Which with the morn dissolves, and scarcely leaves its trace.

  Yet, ’tis not so! For, deep within my breast,

  That dream of joy is but too well imprest;

  The breath of morn but wakes the thought anew,

  And ev’ning to my sorrow finds me true.

  But say, can’st thou, who bad’st these sorrows flow,

  Revel with pleasure, heedless of my woe?

  Does no sad thought of what thy CECIL bears

  Strike thy cold heart, and quench thy joy in tears?

  Ah, no! I fear my mem’ry ne’er was blest

  With one warm tear from thee, or one fond sigh:

  My image never bade thy slumbers fly,

  Or gave a pang to thy unfeeling breast.

  Yet still I love thee, cruel though thou art;

  Nor can my bitter wrongs efface thee from my heart.

  Adieu! a long adieu! for, o’er my soul,

  High‐swelling Sorrow bears her hard controul.

  I can no more! Dark clouds obscure my eye,

  And the cold grave will grant that peace which you deny!

  SUSAN.

  August 15, 1800.

  TO A FRIEND, WITH SOME PAINTED FLOWERS.

  OH! had the little hand that trac’d these flow’rs

  The envied might of guardian saints above,

  How would it deck thy future happy hours

  With flow’rs divine, unfading as my love,

  And ev’ry charm kind fortune could impart!

  But, ah! to me no might can e’er belong;

  Nor can this hand one gift of fate bestow:

  Yet may it wake to love thy feeling heart,

  And bid thy breast with fond emotion glow

  At the poor off’ring of a simple song!

  EXCESS.

  BY M. G. LEWIS, ESQ. M.P.

  WHILE so various our faculties, passions, and views,

  How comes it so few can true happiness find?

  ’Tis because MAN whate’er be the cause he pursues,

  Still aims to be more than what Nature design’d.

  ’Tis because with contempt moderation we see:

  To be wise, happy, great, or good, none ever tries;

  But, with ceaseless exertion, all labour to be

  Too great, or too happy, too good, or too wise.

  To be Man, and no more, Man should limit his care,

  And hold the mid station ‘twixt Angel and Brute;

  Active Virtue composing his ev’ry‐day’s wear,

  And harmless Enjoyment his holiday suit.

  But while, moderation despising, we strive

  In pleasure or virtue perfection to gain,

  From excess to excess through Life’s ocean we drive,

  And the harbour of happiness seldom attain!

  Some, holding that man but exists to enjoy,

  Bid their days, wing’d with rapture, voluptuously fly;

  Others, finding that libertine pleasures soon cloy,

  Reject the delight which their senses supply.

  Like maniacs, the first wildly riot along;

  Forlorn, to the last, seems their earthly abode:

  Both fly to extremes; find, too late, they were wrong,

  And have miss’d the true blessings which chequer Life’s road.

  The Hermit, with Man and with Nature at strife,

  Shunning pleasure, and careless who sink or who swim,

  Leads, alone and inactive, a dull selfish life,

  Neither useful to others nor pleasing to him,

  Nor e’er by such cold flinty hearts can be prov’d

  That sun‐shine which cheers his benevolent breast

  Who, by loving his neighbour, has made himself lov’d,

  And, in blessing another, can make himself blest.

  The Rake, from all conscience and prejudice freed,

  God and man in pursuit of enjoyment defies;

  Though Prudence may warn him, though Virtue may plead,

  Invited by pleasure still onward he flies.

  But ne’er tastes the Libertine’s lip that sweet stream,

  Unsullied, which flows in Life’s chrystalline bowl,

  When Love joins with Nature, with passion esteem,

  And the senses scarce equal in rapture the soul.

  Despis’d be the Hermit, detested the Rake;

  The last is a villain, the first is a fool:

  Not theirs be the Lives which for models I take;

  Not theirs be the maxims my conduct to rule.

  I aim not at Virtues for Man too sublime;

  I’ll pervert not my pleasures by vicious excess;

  But, while Beauty and Wine aid the progress of time,

  May Honour and Sense their encroachment repress.

  When remorse with my kisses its poison would blend,

  May Beauty’s soft bosom ne’er rest upon mine;

  When the grape proves my tyrant, no longer my friend,

  O lips, may I ne’er again bathe you in wine!

  But when fellow‐feelings have made my heart melt,

  Or my spirits are sunk by the pressure of care,

  May love give me thanks that for others I’ve felt,

  And Wine give me strength my own sorrows to bear,

  Let HONOR the pleasures I covet approve;

  Or never by me shall those pleasures be tried:

  Let the kiss I solicit be granted by Love;

  Or still to my lips may that kiss be denied!

  And when, for my sorrows a solace to find,

  I bid in my goblet champagne sparkle high,

  May each globe on its surface recal to my mind

  A tear, drawn by Kindness from Gratitude’s eye!

  A WAR POEM.

  BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

  HARK, how the Church‐bells’ thund’ring harmony

  Stuns the glad ear! Tidings of joy are come;

  Good tidings of great joy — Two gallant ships

  Met on the element; they met — they fought

  A desp’rate fight. Good tidings of great joy!

  The English guns plough’d up the hostile deck:

  Old England triumph’d. Yet another day

  Of glory for the ruler of the waves:

  For those who fell, ’twas in their country’s cause;

  They have their passing paragraphs of praise,

  And are forgotten.

  There was ONE who died

  In that day’s glory, whose obscurer name

  No proud historian’s page will chronicle.

  Peace to his honest soul! I read his name;

  ’Twas in the list of slaughter; and bless’d God

  The sound was not familiar to my ear.

  But it was told me after that this man

  Was one whom lawful violence had forc’d

  From his own home, and wife and little ones,

  WHO by his labours liv’d; that he was one

  Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel

  A husband’s love, a father’s anxiousness!

  That, from the wages of his toil, had fed

  The distant
dear ones; and would talk of them

  At midnight, when he trod the silent deck

  With him he valued: talk of them, of joys

  That he had known. O God! and of the hour

  When they should meet again, till his full heart,

  His manly heart, at last would overflow,

  Ev’n like a child’s, with very tenderness!

  Peace to his honest spirit! Suddenly

  It came; and merciful the ball of death

  That it came suddenly, and shatter’d him,

  And left no moment’s agonizing thought

  On those he lov’d so well!

  He, ocean‐deep,

  Now lies at rest! Be THOU her comforter

  Who art the widow’s friend! Man does not know

  What a cold faintness made her blood run back,

  When first she heard the tidings of the fight.

  Man does not know with what a dreadful hope

  She listen’d to the names of those who died.

  Man does not know, or, knowing, will not heed,

  With what an agony of tenderness

  She gaz’d upon her children, and beheld

  His image who was gone. O GOD, be thou

  Her comforter, WHO ART THE WIDOW’S FRIEND!

  AN EVENING MEDITATION BY THE SIDE OF A RIVER.

  AS, musing on the world and all its woes,

  At eve I wander’d by the river’s side,

  Viewing with vacant gaze the silent flood

  Move slowly onward in its destined course,

  It struck my fancy as the life of man:

  And thus, quoth I, the stream of silent Time

  Flows on, and on, impell’d by unseen force;

  And none can stop its course for one poor hour;

  But thus we journey forward to the grave.

  The scene before us smiles, both gay and fair;

  And in the future we delighted see

  All that we wish, but never shall obtain,

  For Death cuts short our wishes and ourselves!

  Thus, musing, onward I my way pursu’d;

  And saw the rustic train, with measur’d step

  And look devout, each in his Sunday’s best,

  Move slowly pacing to the village‐church.

  Blest be your humble prayers, poor honest souls

  And Heav’n regard them with peculiar grace;

  For in your bosoms dwells that simple peace,

  Of Innocence begot, the fairest fruit

  Of honest labour, and a frugal life.

  Oh, never envy those whom fate has set

  Upon a pinnacle above your reach!

  Your humble virtues shame their rich attire:

  The blush that tints your maidens’ cheeks is true,

  True as the native honor of the heart;

  And would ye change that blush for artful dyes,

  Or all the empty pageantry of state?

  But hark!

  For through the vale the bell of death

  Pours its sad cadence on the list’ning ear,

  Waking to kindred grief the pensive heart.

  Approaching, I survey a little train,

  In doleful black, bearing a friend belov’d

  To his last home! Fast flow their parting tears,

  And heavy grief retards their heavy steps:

  Lamenting, they set down their weary load,

  And lay their friend within his peaceful grave,

  While bursting tears o’erflow their swollen eyes.

  Now, sick at heart, I homeward bend my way;

  And trace the mourners to the silent cot

  Where late the smiles of love their welcome gave,

  And peace, untainted by a restless world,

  Held o’er their simple hearts her gentle sway.

  How chang’d their little home: how blank and cold!

  No smile of welcome greets their drowned eyes:

  For Peace lies buri’d with their buri’d friend,

  And tyrant Grief usurps his vacant place.

  And thus it fares with simple and with great!

  The life of Man, like a gay summer flower,

  Shines bright at morn, and with the twilight fades.

  The Cradle and the Grave are near akin:

  And all the space between our birth and death

  Is but an empty dream,so soon ’tis flown!

  SUSAN

  LINES WRITTEN ON THE 9TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1798.

  AH! why should Grief bid Fancy’s visions fly?

  And dark’ning clouds obscure yon azure sky?

  Last night, as blest with thee the moments flew,

  And Hope’s fair scenes seem’d opening to my view;

  When Fate, relenting at my sorrows past,

  Seem’d to my wishes to accede at last,

  And grant at least a portion of thy heart;

  She strikes the blowand says that we must part!

  Part did I say? Rather may welcome Death

  This form dissolve, and snatch this fleeting breath;

  So I from future sorrows may be free,

  Nor bear ten thousand deaths in losing THEE!

  How can’st thou unconcern’dly give me pain?

  Retract, retract, that cruel word again!

  Nor suffer thus the dreadful thought to rend,

  And wound the bosom of thy tend’rest Friend.

  Or if (avert it Heav’n) the die is cast,

  And our approaching meeting be our last,

  One parting sigh, one tender tear, bestow,

  And seem at least unwillingly to go!

  So shall that sigh repay me for my fate,

  That tear for all my sorrows compensate.

  ANON.

  THE DREAM.

  BY DR. DARWIN.

  DREAD Dream! that, hov’ring in the midnight air,

  Clasp’d with thy dusky wings my aching head,

  Whilst, to Imagination’s startled ear,

  Toll’d the slow bell for bright Eliza dead.

  Stretch’d on her sable bier, the grave beside,

  A snow‐white shroud her breathless bosom bound;

  O’er her wan brow the gather’d folds were tied,

  And Loves and Graces hung their garlands ‘round.

  From these cold lips did softest accents flow,

  ‘Round this pale mouth the sweetest dimples play,

  On this dull cheek the rose of beauty blow,

  And these dim eyes diffuse celestial day?

  Did this cold hand unasking want relieve,

  Or wake the lyre to every rapt’rous sound?

  How sad for others’ woes this heart would heave!

  How light this heart for others’ transport bound!

  Beats not the bell again?Heav’ns! Do I wake?

  Why heave my sighs, and gush my tears, anew?

  Unreal forms my trembling doubts mistake,

  And frantic Sorrow fears the vision true.

  Muse, to Eliza take thy airy flight:

  Go, tell my charmer all my killing fears,

  How love’s soft woes alarm the silent night,

  And steep my pillow with unpitied tears.

  LINES SENT TO A LADY, WITH AN ALMANACK IN A SILVER CASE.

  BY THE REV. AND HON. T. J. TWISLETON.

  IF this my outward garb, so pure so fair,

  The pensive glances of those eyes may share;

  If, beauteous moralist, thy friendship deigns

  To trace the tablet which that garb contains;

  In both thy conscious sense shall bid thee find

  Thy spotless bosom and thy perfect mind.

  To such a mind will days and hours appear

  As feath’ry links that chain the circling year.

  As ‘round the SUN obedient planets move,

  One perfect system may thy Reason prove!

  And, like the pendant orb, attraction still

  Shall bend the varying passions to thy will.

  And, Oh! may time for thee
his restless wing

  Load with the perfumes of redundant Spring!

  May Summer greet thee with celestial hues!

  May Autumn bathe thee in ambrosial dews!

  And Winter o’er the scene no tempests roll,

  To shake the halcyon mildness of thy soul!

  So hours, and months, and years, shall pass away,

  Though transient, cheerful, as an April day;

  And with each morn thy blushing cheek disclose

  The breathing freshness of the living rose;

  While filial virtue evergreens shall bind,

  To mark the sweet affections of thy mind.

  Then start not when this tablet you behold,

  Nor e’er with trembling touch its leaves unfold.

  O’er thee in vain the threat’ning storms may lour,

  While Winter vaunts its desolating pow’r;

  They cannot, will not, break the conscious rest

  Which guards the tranquil tenant of thy breast.

  To vice or folly Time’s unerring wing

  May shame or sorrow, fear or anguish, bring;

  But TRUTH, encircled by a calm sublime,

  May, smiling, ponder o’er the page of Time.

  THE MAD MONK.

  BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

  I HEARD a voice from Etna’s side;

  Where, o’er a cavern’s mouth

  That fronted to the south,

  A chesnut spread its umbrage wide:

  A hermit, or a monk, the man might be;

  But him I could not see:

  And thus the music flow’d along,

  In melody most like to old Sicilian song:

  “There was a time when earth, and sea, and skies,

  The bright green vale, and forest’s dark recess,

  With all things, lay before mine eyes

  In steady loveliness:

  But now I feel, on earth’s uneasy scene,

  Such sorrows as will never cease;

  I only ask for peace;

  If I must live to know that such a time has been!”

  A silence then ensued:

  Till from the cavern came

  A voice;it was the same!

  And thus, in mournful tone, its dreary plaint renew’d:

  “Last night, as o’er the sloping turf I trod,

  The smooth green turf, to me a vision gave

  Beneath mine eyes, the sod

  The roof of ROSA’S grave!

  My heart has need with dreams like these to strive;

  For, when I woke, beneath mine eyes, I found

  The plot of mossy ground,

  On which we oft have sat when ROSA was alive.