Why must the rock, and margin of the flood,
Why must the hills so many flow’ret’s bear,
Whose colours to a murder’d maiden’s blood
Such sad resemblance wear?
I struck the wound,this hand of mine!
For Oh, thou maid divine,
I lov’d to agony!
The youth whom thou call’dst thine
Did never love like me?
“Is it the stormy clouds above
That flash’d so red a gleam?
On yonder downward trickling stream?
’Tis not the blood of her I love.
The sun torments me from his western bed:
Oh, let him cease for ever to diffuse
Those crimson spectre hues!
Oh, let me lie in peace, and be for ever dead!”
Here ceas’d the voice. In deep dismay,
Down thro’ the forest I pursu’d my way.
TO A FALSE FRIEND.
AWAY, thou false one! thou the destin’d bane
Of all my bliss!Yet would I still restrain
The bitter thoughts that falter on my tongue;
I, that ne’er did, nor wish’d to do, thee wrong:
I, that would willingly have sacrific’d
All that by frail mortality is priz’d,
That unto thee those blessings might belong:
At me thou aim’st the unresisted dart,
And the remorseless arrow sinks into my heart!
False friendship is thy name!I know thee well.
How have I suffer’d from that baneful spell
Which ‘round my bosom, in a luckless hour,
Thou artfully didst twine! But now thy pow’r
I heed no more: no more thy falling tears
Can wound my heart with sympathetic fears,
And bid each blooming early prospect lour:
Not e’en thy smiles can any more impart
The balm of consolation to my alter’d heart.
Once did I hope, dup’d by a youthful dream,
That on my future life the soften’d beam
Of thy pure love would shine; that in thy breast
Each secret thought of mine might safely rest;
That in my sorrows thou did’st bear a part,
And all my joys came doubled to thy heart:
But it was false!Yet, be each sigh represt!
Thou art not worthy of my parting tear,
Since to a faithful friend thou could’st be insincere
S.
THE TWILIGHT HOUR.
SWEET is the hour when Contemplation strays
O’er breezy woodland, or low‐winding dell,
List’ning the wild wave’s slow‐returning swell,
Which o’er the rock in length’ning murmur plays,
While in the east chill Twilight’s dusky rays
On the green bosom of the landscape dwell.
Yet, can such scenes the gloomy thought dispel,
Or lead the fancy from reflection’s maze?
Will MEMORY bring no agonizing truth
To dim the fairy visions of past joy;
Scatt’ring the blooming roses of our youth
With many a thorn, our rapture to destroy?
Will she not picture those we once have lov’d,
To whom the magic TWILIGHT HOUR was dear;
With whom conversing we have fondly rov’d,
And mark their absence with a silent tear?
Or, as the night‐breeze rises on the wave,
In melancholy murmurs sad and deep,
Will not fond MEMORY ponder o’er the grave
Where some lost parent, or lov’d friend, may sleep?
Yet, Twilight, come! And teach my pensive mind
This mild example to receive from thee;
Like thy last cheerful hour be mine,resign’d,
And, meekly fading, yield to Fate’s decree!
MARIA.
A RECEIPT FOR MODERN LOVE.
A LOVER, when he first essays
A lady’s heart to gain,
A thousand tender fears betrays,
And talks of jealous pain.
All day he sighs; and, sighing, swears
That love and hope and anxious cares,
Destroy his peace, his nights molest,
And agonize his feeling breast.
If not believ’d, he ardent pays
Obedient homage still,
And ev’ry gentle grace displays
To gratify her will:
Where’er she goes, he follows true;
And, if she frowns, he’ll still adore;
And, if she scorns,he’ll doat the more.
Thus, would you keep a lover, still
Unkind and careless prove;
For MAN is true while treated ill,
And coldness fosters love.
Spurn him with harshnessand he sighs;
Most servile when most cross’d:
Return with kindnessand he flies;
Adore himand HE’S LOST!
LESBIA AND HER LOVER.
LESBIA upon her bosom wore
The semblance of her lover;
And oft with kisses she would cover
The senseless idol, and adore
The dear enchanting rover.
LESBIA would gaze upon his eyes,
And think they look’d so speaking
That oft her gentle heart was breaking;
While glancing ‘round, with frequent sighs,
She seem’d her lover seeking.
One day says REASON, “Why embrace
A cold and senseless lover?
What charms can youthful eyes discover
In such a varnish’d, painted face?
Pry’thee the task give over.”
Cried LESBIA, “REASON, wherefore blame?
Must you the cause be told?
My breathing lover I behold
With features painted just the same,
As senseless and as cold.
Then, REASON, ’tis the better way
The harmless to commend:
My breathing lover soon would end
My weary life, to grief a prey;
This never can offend.”
INSCRIBED TO A ONCE DEAR FRIEND.
SAY not the moments swiftly move,
When blest with those we fondly love;
Alas! each moment seems to me
An age of bliss, if blest with thee.
But, torn away from thee, my friend,
The weary scene would quickly end;
For, like the light’ning, fraught with ill,
The pang, tho’ short, would surely kill!
IMPROMPTU.
DEAR SUSAN, while thy happy state
By virtue shames the guilty great,
And cheers the child of Woe;
Thou court’st no false and vulgar glare:
To make the crowd with wonder stare
At Folly’s tinsel show.
Tho’ deck’d in all the pride of worth,
Above the empty boast of birth,
No wealth to recommend,
Two wonders are by thee possest
Thou art unfashionably chaste,
And art a faithful friend.
MARIA.
THE SAILOR’S DEPARTURE.
SOFTLY did the curling billow
Wanton o’er the pebbly bay,
While the sun’s last beam departing
Mark’d the hour of sinking day:
O’er the distant waters stealing,
Misty vapours float around;
While each tiny streamer waving
Beats the air with flutt’ring sound.
Lab’ring through the tranquil ocean,
Hen’ry’s little boat moves slow:
Sad and silent is his bosom;
Sad and silently they go.
Still beneath the straw roof slanting
Mary’s peaceful home he sees,
&nb
sp; While fond Fancy gives the lover
Mary’s song in ev’ry breeze:
Many a happy hour recalling,
Many a tear in secret shed,
Many a glance of fond affection,
Many a pang of jealous dread.
Now the twinkling stars discover
Distant objects, still held dear,
While the melancholy lover
Marks them with a silent tear.
Thro’ the gloomy thicket darting,
Oft a glimm’ring light appears;
While some well‐known ditty whistling,
Memory mingles smiles with tears.
Now the doubtful gleam of morning
Paly light diffuses ‘round;
While the night‐breeze, far retiring,
Bears the day‐gun’s length’ning sound.
See! the fresh’ning breezes bear him
Swiftly through the dashing spray,
While his native shores receding
Claim a smother’d farewel sigh!
MARIA.
THE MINCE‐PYE.
HAIL, sav’ry compound, luscious to the taste,
The school‐boy’s heart delighting! sweet reward
Of many a tedious hour of penance sad
And lab’ring erudition! Oft hast thou
Been brought to view by strong anticipation,
When poring over books, or conning loth
The lesson of dull grammar. When, at school,
The scanty table nothing did present
But suet dumpling, or hard mutton boil’d,
How has thy minc’d meat danc’d before the eyes
Of greedy visionary! how possest
The mazes of his brain! Then to his view
Did his dear HOME return: his parents’ smiles;
His ev’ning visits; and, perhaps, his joy
At play‐house, where the busy Pantomime
Bewitch’d the time away: then to return
To sup! to eat MINCE PIE! drink luscious wine!
To keep the list’ning circle list’ning still
Till after midnight, when the little ELF
On his soft pillow dreams it o’er again,
And wakes to mutton boil’d and SCHOOL once more.
WINKFIELD PLAIN; OR, A DESCRIPTION OF A CAMP IN THE YEAR 1800.
TENTS, marquees, and baggage‐waggons;
Suttling houses; beer in flaggons;
Drams and trumpets; singing, firing;
Girls seducing; beaux admiring;
Country lasses, gay and smiling;
City‐lads their hearts beguiling;
Dusty roads, and horses frisky;
Many an Eton boy, in whisky;
Tax’d‐carts, fall of farmers’ daughters;
Brutes to kill, and man, who slaughters;
Public‐houses, booths, and castles;
Belles of fashion, serving vassals;
Dowagers of sixty, simpering;
Misses for “their soldiers” wimp’ring;
Princesses with heav’nly faces;
Beauteous children of the Graces;
Britain’s pride, and Virtue’s treasure;
Fair and gracious beyond measure;
Aid‐de‐camps; and royal pages;
Prudes and vestals of all ages;
Old coquettes, and matrons surly;
Sounds of distant hurly burly;
Mingled sounds of uncouth singing;
Carts, all sorts of forage bringing;
Sociables, and horses weary;
Houses warm and dresses airy;
Loads of fatten’d poultry; pleasure
Serv’d (for money) without measure;
Tradesmen leaving shops, and seeming
More of war than bus’ness dreaming.
Martial sounds, and braying asses;
Noise that ev’ry noise surpasses;
All confusion, din, and riot;
Nothing clean, and nothing quiet.
M. E. R.
LINES SENT TO THE LOVELY AND ACCOMPLISHED MISS S* * * * * *, WITH SOME OF THE AUTHOR’S POETRY.
BY M. G. LEWIS, ESQ.
TO gratify my scribbling pride,
And spread my verses far and wide,
Fair girl! the readiest way I’ll shew you:
Bid all who love you to excess
Peruse these lines; and then, I guess,
They’ll soon be read by all who know you.
PAPA’S NOSE!
BY THE SAME.
SLEEP, lovely babe! sleep, gentle heart!
Thy father’s picture: so thou art;
Though he, forsooth, is pleas’d to say
His nose is form’d another way.
Laughing, he ey’d you even now;
And said, “That face of thine
“Has much of me; but yet, I vow,
“That nose, child, is not mine.”
Sleep, lovely babe! in peace repose!
His son thou surely art;
Though thou hast not thy father’s nose,
Oh! have thy father’s heart.
TO LOVE.
BY CAPT. CHARLES JAMES.
LOVE! thou pleasing, gen’rous feeling,
In what shape art thou not found?
Gently o’er the senses stealing,
In a soft delirium drown’d.
Lo, with martial stride appearing,
Deck’d in soldier’s trim array,
Thou, nor wounds nor carnage fearing,
Lead’st to hasty rout the way!
Now as hermit, prostrate falling,
Scrip and beads around thee strung.
Then, as joyous huntsman, calling,
Horn and belt on shoulder slung:
Wild, to antic measure dancing,
Now the mantling cup goes ‘round,
Fawns and satyrs round thee prancing,
Lightly o’er the mystic ground.
Quick, with looks demure, yet smiling,
See the shepherd youth appears;
With sweet note the nymph beguiling,
Softly woo’d with vows and tears.
Sighs, entreaties, wiles enchanting,
Ever ready at thy nod;
Kneeling, trembling, struggling, panting
Still prepar’d, thou busy god!
Yet, with ev’ry little failing,
Thou art welcome still to me;
Gonemy heart is ever wailing;
Life’s but savage liberty.
THE LOVER.
BY THE SAME.
AH! who can tell the pangs of those
Who truly love?Their heartfelt woes;
Their tender sorrows; ceaseless sighs;
Their transports, which immortalize?
Strange tremors, jealousies, and fears,
Anxieties, and bitter tears,
Must gall the Lover’s glowing cheek;
And anguish, which he dare not speak,
Must rankle in his glowing heart,
And point Despair’s envenom’d dart.
Oh! he shall seek, with madden’d haste,
The horrors of the lone parch’d waste;
Nor dread the rugged mountain’s height,
Or dashing billow’s wild affright;
But hie him to the briny shore,
Regardless of the hoarse storm’s roar:
There, creeping to some desert cave,
The wretched sport of each salt wave,
See him on dank weeds weeping lie,
And wishbut ah! in vainto die!
Sudden he leaves the moisten’d sands,
A rapt’rous gleam his heart expands;
Visions of heav’nly joys arise,
Delicious dreams and ecstacies,
Such as “those happy souls that dwell
In yellow meads of Asphodel,”
Where perfum’d zephyrs ever blow
In fields Elysian, faintly know.
Lo! Genius o’er him, eagle‐eyed,
Displays his glowing pennon
s wide;
Hark! hark! Inspir’d he strikes the shell,
And sings how heroes bleeding fell;
Or wooes, to some enamour’d tale,
With melow strains, the nightingale;
Now guides the muses’ radiant plume,
And tells how, o’er the hawthorn’s bloom,
The glow‐worm pours her modest rays,
And tints each leaf with azure blaze;
What time the changeful queen of night
Bedecks each cloud with orient light,
Till, at the dawn of glorious day,
The paly lustre melts away.
Oh! it would claim “a muse of fire,”
To sing of Love and young Desire;
To paint the passions all must prove
Who feel thy pow’r, most mighty Love!
LINES BY THE HON. AND REV. T. J. TWISLETON.
Mr. T. saw Miss S. C. at a party with an old, shabby, worn-out fan; and, with the liberty of friendship, took an immediate opportunity of committing it to the flames. The next day Mr. T. sent an elegant new fan to Miss S. C.; with the following lines, supposed to be the declaration of the new fan.
THRICE happy I;now doom’d, by Fortune’s lot,
To keep the sun from Seymour’s beauteous eyes;
To fan her, like a Zephyr’s cooling breeze;
To screen her face from fire’s too scorching heat;
Or, whilst devotion occupies her mind,
In that assembly which is met for pray’r,
To guard her from the prying eyes of Man.
But, whilst with hope I this enjoyment crave,
Yet still, in pity, let me mourn the fate
Of one poor name‐sake; which, in luckless hour,
Was made a prey to the devouring flame.
Its time was come; and, worn‐out in its course,
With proofs of service met its timely end.
With youth’s and novelty’s bewitching charm,
A daring substitute I come:if once
I feel the pressure of my Seymour’s hand,
May Truth proclaim me happiest of my kind!
TO A FRIEND, ON THE AUTHOR’S INTENTION TO QUIT ENGLAND FOR SEVERAL YEARS.
COULD transient pleasures tempt my heart
To leave the friend my soul adores,
Oh, Memory, oft thy tear would start,
When, on Sicilia’s viney shores,
Each dancing maid or minstrel gay
Breath’d to the sinking sun their roundelay.
And, as the misty vapor stole
Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 45