Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson

by Mary Robinson

  Along the purpling ev’ning sky,

  Would Memory picture to my soul

  Thy glowing cheek, thy speaking eye;

  While my sad aching heart would mourn,

  To know those blissful days would ne’er return.

  When, stricken by the hand of care,

  In some far distant land I sleep,

  No soothing breast my grief to share,

  No mournful eye for me will weep;

  And, when my weary soul shall seek repose,

  Some Stranger’s hand my fainting eyes will close:

  Ev’n then TO THEE my fleeting thoughts will rove;

  Sad as my fate, though constant as my love.

  M. E. R.

  TO WILLIAM MOODY, ESQ. WITH AN EMPTY PURSE.

  Presented January 1, 1803.

  THIS is the day of Gifts, to prove,

  By change of tokens, unchang’d love;

  And who is he that, once a‐year,

  Yearns not to prove he is sincere?

  And who so poor but can bestow

  Some sign that may affection show?

  For true affection will receive

  What e’en the sons of Verse may give;

  For ’tis affection’s gen’rous part

  To weigh and measure by the heart,

  In whose kind balances a flow’r,

  Light as the thistle down, has pow’r

  Sweetly to turn th’ indulgent scale

  Where all the miser’s heaps would fail.

  How lucky, then, dear Friend, for me,

  Who’ve nought to give but poesy!

  For, though a friend may be a poet,

  Few are his means, ’tis said, to shew it,

  Of wreaths, ’tis true, his God sends plenty;

  From half a page he can weave twenty;

  Pinks, roses, lilies, all in bloom,

  Enough to deck May’s drawing‐room;

  Nay, in December’s darkest time,

  Can make a rich July in rhyme,

  Can, amidst Nature’s real snow,

  Bid Fancy’s fairy blossoms blow,

  And all so freshly cull’d, and gay,

  From gardens in Utopia!

  Where poets, poor although they seem,

  Have their golcondas in a dream;

  Domains in tail, estates in fee,

  None but a poet’s eye can see;

  A rich alcove, a sweet parterre,

  A castle and a bankin air.

  From these possessions, worthy friend,

  I could a perfum’d garland send,

  That, high as Warwick’s loftiest tow’r,

  Might make Beaudesert all in flow’r.

  But what are flowers? I fain would give

  What might a little longer live;

  For Fancy’s blooms, tho’ fair and gay

  Like Nature’s, flourish but a day.

  What then shall grace my new year’s verse,

  My friend a bankerSure; a PURSE

  Is most appropriate to his plan,

  Tho’ useless to a rhyming man:

  Then take it, Moody; and, tho’ poor

  And empty, it now boasts no store

  But the thin silver round its rim,

  You soon can fill it to the brim;

  And, tho’ so low, and lean, and taper,

  Can spread it out in Warwick paper;

  Can lend it golden wings to fly,

  As ‘twere a native of the sky.

  Yet, when ’tis full, oh, let it rest

  A gift to Her you love the best!

  In her kind hand it still shall prove

  A friend to Bounty as to Love;

  And I next year will send to you

  An empty sack for filling too.

  S. J. PRATT.

  PROLOGUE, WRITTEN BY THE EARL OF MOUNT EDGCUMBE; AND SPOKEN BY HIM AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE, STRAW‐ BERRY‐HILL, NOV. 1800.

  Noise and disputing behind the Scenes. The curtain begins to rise.(Speaks within.)

  HOLD, hold!What’s this?No prologue to our play?

  Down with the curtainlet it down, I say:

  Let me go forthI must, I will have way!

  (Enters.)

  So; I’ve escap’d at length: with much ado,

  With threats, entreaties, ay, and wrangling too,

  I’ve forc’d my passage, ere the curtain rise,

  To mark your looks, your thoughts to scrutinize,

  And read our doom, before‐hand, in your eyes.

  Long in the green‐room was this point contested:

  Scarce to my pray’r a half‐assent I’d wrested

  When, loudly summon’d by the prompter’s bell,

  (To young advent’rers a tremendous knell!)

  Restraint disdaining, hastily I flew

  To state the case, and plead my cause to you.

  What! an unpractis’d novice band engage,

  With vent’rous step, to tread the awful stage:

  Before this dread tribunal dare t’appear;

  Face such an audience as I now see here;

  Nor send one humble messenger before,

  To court your favour, and your smiles implore!

  Thus did I vainly urge: they all reply,

  “But who so bold will venture?” Who will?I:

  Give me your prologue; let this task be mine,

  Or I’ll no longer be your Valentine.

  Thus then — But soft! methinks I here descry

  Smiles of good‐humour beam from ev’ry eye;

  The gen’rous thought let ev’ry bosom move,

  That prompts to pardon, if it can’t approve:

  Yes, in these partial looks with pride I view

  Our fondest wishes realiz’d by you.

  No more, no more: I’ll hasten to my friends;

  Tell them, in their despite, I’ve gain’d my ends;

  Bid them with confidence dispel their fear,

  Certain to meet a kind reception here.

  EPILOGUE, TO THE THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION AT STRAWBERRY‐ HILL.

  WRITTEN BY JOHANNA BAILLIE, AND SPOKEN BY THE HON. ANNE S. DAMER, NOVEMBER, 1800.

  WHILST fogs along the Thames’ damp margin creep;

  And cold winds thro’ his leafless willows sweep;

  And fairy elves, whose summer sport had been

  To foot it nightly on the moon light green,

  Now, hooded close, in many a cow’ring form,

  Troop with the surly spirits of the storm;

  Whilst by the blazing fire, with saddled nose,

  The sage turns o’er his leaves of tedious prose;

  And o’er their new‐dealt cards, with eager eye,

  Good dowagers exult, or inly sigh;

  And blooming maids from silken work‐bags pour,

  Like tangled sea‐weed on the vexed shore,

  Of patch‐work, netting, fringe, a strange and motley store

  Whilst all, attempting many a different mode,

  Would from their shoulders hitch Time’s heavy load:

  Thus have we chose, in comic sock bedight,

  To wrestle with a long November night.

  “In comic sock!” methinks indignant cries

  Some grave fastidious friend, with angry eyes,

  Scowling severe: “No more the phrase abuse;

  “So shod, indeed, there had been some excuse:

  “But in these walls, a once well‐known retreat

  “Where Taste and Learning kept a favorite seat,

  “Where Gothic arches, with a solemn shade,

  “Should o’er the thoughtful mind their influence spread,

  “Where pictures, vases, busts, and precious things,

  “Still speak of sages, poets, heroes, kings,

  “On which the stranger looks with pensive gaze,

  “And thinks upon the worth of other days,

  “Like foolish children, in their mimic play,

  “Confin’d at Grandame’s in a rainy day;

  “Wit
h paltry farce, and all its bastard train,

  “Grotesque and broad, such precincts to profane!

  “It is a shame!But no, I will not speak;

  “I feel the blood rise mantling to my cheek.”

  Indeed, wise Sir!

  But he who o’er our heads these arches bent,

  And stor’d these relicts dear to sentiment,

  More mild than you, with grave pedantic pride,

  Would not have rang’d him on your surly side.

  But now to you who, on our frolic scene,

  Have look’d well pleas’d, and gentle critics been,

  Nor would our homely humour proudly spurn,

  To you, the good, the gay, the fair, I turn,

  And thank you all.If here our feeble pow’rs

  Have lightly wing’d for you some wint’ry hours,

  Should these remember’d scenes in fancy live,

  And to some future minutes pleasure give,

  To right good end we’ve worn our mumming guise,

  And we’re repaid and happyaye, and wise

  Who says we are not?on his sombre birth

  Gay Fancy smil’d not, nor heart‐light’ning Mirth:

  Home let him hie to his unsocial rest,

  And heavy sit the night‐mare on his breast!

  ANACREONTIC.

  MORNING.

  THE sun now climbs the eastern hill:

  Awake, my love! thine eyes unclose;

  Hark! near our hut the limpid rill

  Calls thee; soft‐tinkling, from repose,

  The lark is rous’d: her speckled breast

  Soars high above thy couch of rest,

  And on the plain the hunter’s cries

  Call Echo from her misty skies.

  Awake, my love! Those glances meet

  Which promise hours of blisses sweet.

  The dew‐pearls fall from ev’ry flow’r:

  See how they glitter o’er the heath,

  While balmy breathings fill the bow’r

  Where LOVE still sighs with softer breath!

  ’Tis time to wake, my LOVE; the day

  On sunny wing flies fast away:

  Noon will thy ruddy cheek annoy,

  And ev’ning’s dews will damp our joy:

  Then wake, MY LOVE! and ope those eyes,

  As bright and blue as summer skies.

  We’ll hunt the stag; we’ll chase the boar:

  Thou shalt my ATALANTA be;

  And when our sportive toil is o’er,

  VENUS shall snatch a grace from thee.

  Young BACCHUS shall his ivy band

  Receive from thy soft snowy hand;

  And Time his scythe aside shall fling,

  While rosy raptures stop his wing.

  Then wake, MY LOVE, the sun his beam

  Darts golden o’er yon rapid stream.

  Thy cheek shall bloom as HEBE’S fair;

  Thy lip shall moist with honey be;

  The Graces shall entwine thy hair;

  The Loves shall weave a zone for thee:

  Thy feet shall bound across the waste,

  Like Daphne by Apollo chas’d;

  And ev’ry breeze that ‘round thee blows

  Shall bring thee fragrance from the rose:

  Then come, MY LOVE! the hour employ

  No more in dreams, but waking joy.

  I hear thy voice; I see those orbs,

  As blue, as brilliant, as the day!

  Thy humid lip the dew absorbs,

  It scents thy breath like op’ning May.

  Upon thy dimpled cheek the hue

  Of Summer’s blushing buds I view;

  Upon thy bosom’s polish’d glow,

  The whiteness of the melting snow.

  Ah! close thine eyes, MY LOVE, for, see

  All Nature is eclips’d by THEE.

  BRING ME THE FLOWING CUP, DEAR BOY!

  BRING me the flowing cup, dear boy!

  And bring it full; for I

  Must taste the grateful liquid joy,

  And bid dull sorrow fly:

  Bring, bring the sparkling cup divine,

  And let its bev’rage sweet be mine.

  Not with the purple luscious stream

  Its chrystal sides must glow;

  Not with the fev’rish restless dream

  Will with’ring anguish go!

  Bring me the cup of bev’rage pure,

  Which shall the wounds of MEMORY cure.

  Give to the BACCHANALIAN throng

  Phoenicia’s perfum’d glass;

  While tipsy, revelry and song,

  Greet TIME, and bid him pass:

  I ask the goblet,not of wine;

  I ask the limpid draught, DIVINE.

  Let the hot sun‐beam give the fruit

  A bloom of purple hue;

  Let the pale MOON, in sil’vry suit,

  Scatter nocturnal dew;

  I to the fountain clear will haste,

  A healthful chrystal cup to taste.

  And now, my fev’rish senses find

  A calm and soothing rest;

  Sweet are the visions of my mind.

  And tranquil is my breast:

  For, ’tis from LETHE’S sacred stream

  I drink farewell to PASSION’S DREAM.

  WINTER.

  YOU say, my love, the drifted snow

  Around our ivy roof is flying:

  Why, what care I? our bosoms glow;

  And LOVE still smiles, the storm defying.

  LOVE shall no angry tempest fear,

  Tho’ frowning skies the hail may scatter;

  For still our guardian LOVE is here,

  Should howling blasts our hovel shatter.

  Let icy bosoms freeze, while shrill

  The north wind blows around our dwelling;

  Our bosoms feel the glowing thrill,

  And still with melting joys are swelling.

  The hollow gust which passes by

  We scarcely hear, no danger fearing;

  Yet LOVE’S most soft and murmur’d sigh

  Shall speak in accents sweetly cheering.

  Our faggot fire shall brighter blaze;

  Our bed of down invite to slumber;

  And, ‘till the morn shall spread its rays,

  TIME shall delightful moments number.

  See the dull flame our taper shews!

  Faintly it burns: well! let it quiver;

  The torch of LOVE unwasted glows,

  And still shall glow as bright as ever.

  TO BACCHUS.

  IS it the purple grape that throws

  A lustre on the sparkling eye?

  Is it the nectar draught that flows

  Upon the lip of ruby dye?

  Is it the BACCHANALIAN set

  That make old TIME his scythe forget,

  And give the long, long, joyous night,

  To fill the breast with rich delight?

  Does WINE expand the glowing soul?

  Does FRIENDSHIP weave the magic vine?

  And, strengthen’d in the mantling bowl,

  Does GENIUS own its pow’r divine?

  Does SCIENCE smile? and WISDOM find

  The nectar cup expand the mind?

  And does the morn’s returning light

  APPROVE the long, long, joyous night?

  If so, thou rosy god! then take

  My ardent vows; and give to mirth

  The fleeting hour; for thou can’st make

  This mortal scene a heav’n on earth.

  Bring, bring the magic cup; and we

  Will laugh and sport so merrily

  That all the long, long, joyous night

  Our hearts shall glow with rich delight.

  But, if thy purple stream should prove

  A spell, my finer sense to bind;

  If it can dim the flame of LOVE,

  Or chill the source that warms the mind:

  If REASON, BACCHUS, flies from thee,

  I scorn thy grov’lin
g slave to be!

  Nor will I share the long, long night

  That robs the soul of pure delight.

  THE DAY IS PAST; THE SULTRY WEST

  1.

  THE day is past; the sultry west

  The golden curtain closes:

  My mossy couch is gaily drest

  With leaves of summer roses,

  For thee:

  The day is past; the silv’ry moon

  Will light the shadowy mountain soon:

  Then come, my love; let soft delight

  Give downy wings to fleeting night,

  With me!

  2.

  The day is past; the rising dews

  Spangle the meadows over,

  Where buds retint their faded hues

  To greet the wand’ring lover

  Like thee.

  The gossamer its silver thread

  Winds round the glow‐worm’s twinkling head:

  The beetle sounds its drony horn;

  And pearl‐drops all the flow’rs adorn;

  For me.

  3.

  The purple vine its branches bends,

  The bow’r of LOVE confining;

  And there the ROSY GOD attends,

  An ivy wreath entwining

  For thee:

  The golden goblets, foaming ‘round,

  Seem with impatient streams to bound;

  Haste, haste, my truant; let thy lip

  The cup of heav’nly nectar sip

  With me!

  4.

  But let not low or base desire

  Degrade thy bosom’s feeling;

  Let LOVE illume his sacred fire,

  The light of truth revealing,

  For thee.

  Let vulgar common natures rove

  In paths of sordid sensual love;

  But, know, the sordid grov’ling mind

  Nor friend nor lover e’er shall find

  In me!

  A KISS.

  WHAT is a kiss?’Tis but a seal

  That, lightly printed, soon decays:

  ’Tis but a zephyr taught to steal

  Where fleeting falsehood smiling plays:

  The breeze will kiss the flow’r; but soon

  From flow’r to weed inconstant blows:

  Such is the kiss of LOVE, the boon

  Which fickle fancy’s form bestows.

  A balmy Kiss once VENUS gave

  The ROSE that caught her lover’s sigh:

  That ROSE with ev’ry gale would wave,

  At every glance of morning die;

  Would ope its bosom to the beam

  Which glowing noon promiscuous threw;

  Or, to the twilight’s parting beam,

  Would yield responsive tears of dew;