Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson

by Mary Robinson

  Oft to the bee its sweets would give,

  And flaunt its odours wild around;

  With perfum’d breath bid pleasures live,

  Or with its hidden mischiefs wound.

  This ROSE was white; and, to be blest,

  Around it insect‐myriads flew,

  Charm’d by the wonders of its breast,

  High‐essenc’d in the summer dew:

  But when the lip of beauty shed

  A rival sweetness on that breast,

  It blush’dand droop’d its fragrant head,

  Asham’d to be so proudly blest.

  Its odour chang’d, a crimson glow

  Fix’d on its lovely form appears;

  While ‘round the sighing zephyrs blow,

  And NATURE bathes its leaves with tears.

  Then does not ev’ry kiss impart,

  In magic thrills of speechless pleasure,

  Reproaches to the wand’ring heart

  That knows not how to prize the treasure?

  FAIRY VISIONS.

  Oft, on silken wings upborne,

  We, thro’ dim air our sports pursue;

  ‘Till, scatter’d by the breeze of morn,

  We quickly vanish from the view.

  KENDAL.

  OBERON TO TITANIA.

  OH come, my pretty love! and we

  Will climb the dewy hill together;

  An acorn shall our goblet be,

  A rose our couch in sultry weather

  Amidst its fragrant leaves we’ll lie,

  List’ning the zephyrs passing by.

  Ah come, my fairy love! and sip

  The dew that from each leaf is flowing;

  And let the insect ‘round thy lip

  With envy hover, while ’tis glowing.

  Beneath a cowslip’s shade we’ll sing,

  While morning gales shall fragrance bring.

  Haste, haste, my tiny love! and dress

  Thy pretty form with pearls of morning;

  Thy smiles shall charm, thy voice shall bless,

  Thy beauty ev’ry grace adorning:

  By moon‐light, on the glitt’ring ground

  We’ll sport, while fairies frolic ‘round.

  Ah! why delay, my elfin love?

  The sun is sinking in the ocean;

  The birds are sleeping in the grove;

  The weary zephyrs scarce have motion:

  Ah! soon the gloomy shades of night

  Will want those eyes of starry light.

  I’ve made thee, love, a canopy,

  Of tulip tinted rich; a cluster

  Of shining gold‐cups waving nigh,

  Bespangled o’er with dewy lustre:

  A verdant carpet at the door

  With silv’ry frost is scatter’d o’er.

  Thy curtains are of insects’ wings,

  With gossamer festoon’d and corded;

  And, for their tassels, zephyr brings

  The thistle’s floss, which Winter hoarded:

  Thy pillow is of swan‐down fair,

  With filmy net‐work, rich and rare.

  Now, OBERON, thy love attends;

  His heart with anxious terror swelling;

  While low his form with sorrow bends,

  To mark of LOVE the lonely dwelling:

  Oh, come! or, ere Night’s shadows fly,

  The chilling breeze shall bid me die.

  TITANIA’S ANSWER TO OBERON.

  IN vain for me thy gifts display’d

  Meet the red eye of smiling morning:

  I still will court the lovely shade,

  Alike thy vows and splendor scorning.

  Inconstant! Ev’ry fairy knows

  Thy love is like the gale that blows.

  Thy oaths are like the summer flow’rs,

  No sooner blown than quickly faded;

  Thy home like April’s treach’rous show’rs,

  Now gay, and now by storms invaded;

  Thy song is like the vagrant bird,

  That sweet in ev’ry clime is heard.

  Thy couch so fragrant, rich, and gay,

  Will fade ere love has learnt to sicken;

  And thou wilt wing thy fickle way,

  While Hope decays, by falsehood stricken,

  As o’er the moon‐light airy space

  A thousand rivals fear shall trace.

  False Lover! to the shaggy steep

  TITANIA flies from thee and sorrow:

  And, while beneath the waters sleep,

  From night a sable veil will borrow;

  And on a thorny pillow rest,

  Beside the screaming curlew’s nest.

  Yes, the lorn sea‐bird’s nest shall be

  Her cavern’d home, in hopeless anguish;

  And, to the star of ev’ning, She

  Will tell how faithful love can languish:

  The owl shall watch her all night long,

  Hooting the dreary cliffs among.

  Go, vagrant lover! ‘Mid the throngs

  Of fairy rovers seek a dwelling;

  While I in silence mourn my wrongs,

  My sighs upon the cold breeze swelling:

  Go! Sport in wanton, idle play,

  While moon‐light scatters mimic day.

  Go! where the sun its splendor throws

  Upon the crest of yon tall mountain;

  Go! drink oblivion to love’s woes,

  Where ev’ning gilds the lucid fountain;

  Go! where inconstant zephyrs flee:

  But think, oh! think no more of me.

  TO GEORGIANA, ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH‐DAY.

  LAST night, as musing on a lay

  To greet thee on thy natal day,

  Sleep o’er my eyes her poppies press’d;

  And, as I softly sunk to rest,

  Fancy beguil’d the passing hours

  With visions fair as summer flow’rs,

  In all their blushing beauty drest.

  Methought in fairy land I wander’d,

  A land renown’d in ancient tale;

  And by a streamlet clear and bright,

  Reflecting Cynthia’s silver light,

  That o’er its glitt’ring bed meander’d

  In peaceful murmurs thro’ the vale,

  A band of tiny elves I spied,

  Disporting gaily side by side,

  And frisking in the moon‐beam pale.

  Their robes of green were spangled o’er

  With pearly dew‐drops, silv’ry bright;

  And on their little forms, so light,

  Beauty had lavish’d all her store.

  Upon their heads an em’rald crown

  Encompass’d plumes of cygnets’ down;

  Which, as they sported in the shade,

  With ev’ry wanton zephyr play’d

  That flutter’d on the verdant shore.

  And now from forth a hollow tree,

  In gallant trim came merrily

  Of little knights a fairy band,

  Each with a glow‐worm in his hand,

  To light the scene of revelry.

  The silver fish had lent its scale,

  To deck their splendid coat of mail;

  Which studded shone with golden sand,

  And gems that sparkled brilliantly:

  And each a slender jav’lin bore,

  Like gallant knights in days of yore.

  Their glossy bucklers’ sable pride

  Was stolen from the beetle’s side;

  And lady‐birds had cast their shell,

  To form their helmets’ polish’d swell,

  O’er which majestic seem’d to fly

  Soft plumage of celestial dye.

  And soon each gentle warrior‐knight

  Threw off his cumb’rous shield and lance;

  And, while soft music charm’d the night,

  His little fairy partner led

  To mingle in the circling dance.

  They now retreat, and now advance;

  Now
, frisking light, with airy tread,

  They gain the nearest mountain head,

  Where shone a blooming woodbine bow’r,

  Adorn’d with many a fragrant flow’r

  That early spring profusely shed.

  There, on an altar dazzling‐white,

  A graceful figure met the sight;

  Upon whose pedestal was seen,

  In golden letters, “BEAUTY’S QUEEN.”

  The face was by a veil conceal’d,

  And ev’n the form but half‐reveal’d;

  Yet plainly shone in ev’ry line

  The traces of a form divine.

  When, lo! from forth his secret cell,

  A spotless lily’s perfum’d bell,

  A naked infant blushing flew:

  His breast the mountain snow outvied;

  His lip the rich carnation’s pride;

  And o’er his eyes’ luxuriant blue

  His silken ringlets lightly flew.

  Around, in adoration low,

  The circling fairies prostrate bow;

  Hailing, with shouts of heartfelt glee,

  The presence of their deity.

  And now the blooming dimpled child

  Display’d his purple wings, and smil’d;

  And, raising high his little hand,

  Attentive silence to command,

  He thus bespoke the fairy band:

  “The genial spring’s all‐cheering ray

  Hath bid the win’try tempests fly;

  And now, revolving, brings the day

  On whose blest morn awoke to birth

  The fairest flow’r of all the earth.

  Come, then, ere dawn‐light’s weeping eye

  Dissolve our midnight revelry,

  Responsive to the tabor’s sound

  Now chaunt the merry roundelay,

  And let the rosy cup go round.

  Of cowslips sweet a garland bring,

  The firstlings of the infant spring;

  And add the primrose, soft and pale,

  The humble fav’rite of the vale:

  And twine them into many a braid,

  To decorate the blooming maid.

  “Enough! the magic spell is o’er:

  “Fall prostrate, Fairies! and adore.”

  And, as the veil he gently rais’d,

  In soft enchantment lost I gaz’d:

  For, as he gave the form to light

  In all its native lustre bright,

  It was thy image met my sight.

  And now the morning’s rosy ray

  Upon my window ‘gan to play,

  Just as thy form dissol’vd in air,

  And ev’ry fairy took his flight.

  ADDENDA.

  HARVEST‐HOME.

  BY MRS. ROBINSON.

  WHO has not seen the chearful Harvest Home

  Enliv’ning the scorch’d field, and greeting gay

  The slow decline of Autumn? All around

  The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,

  Glow, golden lustr’d; and the trembling stem

  Of the slim oat, or azure corn‐flow’r,

  Waves on the hedge‐rows shady. From the hill

  The day‐breeze softly steals with downward wing,

  And lightly passes, whisp’ring the soft sounds

  Which moan the death of Summer. Glowing scene!

  Nature’s long holiday? Luxuriant, rich,

  In her proud progeny, she smiling marks

  Their graces, now mature, and wonder fraught!

  Hail! season exquisite! and hail, ye sons

  Of rural toil! ye blooming daughters! ye,

  Who, in the lap of hardy labour rear’d,

  Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,

  Or on the sidelong hill, or in the glen,

  Where the rich farm, or scatter’d hamlet shews

  The neighbourhood of peace, ye still are found,

  A merry and an artless throng, whose souls

  Beam thro’ untutor’d glances. When the dawn

  Unfolds its sunny lustre, and the dew

  Silvers the outstretch’d landscape, labour’s sons

  Rise, ever healthful, ever chearily,

  From sweet and soothing rest; for fev’rish dreams

  Visit not lowly pallets! All the day

  They toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon,

  But toil without repining! The blythe song,

  Joining the woodland melodies afar,

  Flings its rude cadence in fantastic sport

  On Echo’s airy wing! The pond’rous load

  Follows the weary team: the narrow lane

  Bears on its thick wove hedge the scatter’d corn,

  Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thorn

  Purloin’d from the broad waggon.

  On the plain

  The freckled gleaner gathers the scant sheaf,

  And looks, with many a sigh, on the tythe heap

  Of the proud, pamper’d pastor! To the brook

  That ripples shallow down the valley’s slope,

  The herds slow measure their unvaried way:

  The flocks along the heath are dimly seen

  By the faint torch of ev’ning, whose red eye

  Closes in tearful silence. Now the air

  Is rich in fragrance! fragrance exquisite!

  Of new‐mown hay, of wild thyme dewy‐wash’d,

  And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,

  Ruffle the lake’s grey surface. All around

  The thin mist rises, and the busy tones

  Of airy people, borne on viewless wings,

  Break the short pause of nature. From the plain

  The rustic throngs come chearly; their loud din

  Augments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,

  Happy! more happy than the lords ye serve!

  How lustily your sons endure the hour

  Of wint’ry desolation; and how fair

  Your blooming daughters greet the op’ning dawn

  Of love‐inspiring Spring!

  Hail! harvest home!

  To thee, the Muse of Nature pours the song,

  By instinct taught to warble: instinct pure,

  Sacred, and grateful to that Pow’r ador’d,

  Which warms the sensate being, and reveals

  The soul self‐evident! beyond the dreams

  Of visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!

  Where earth presents her golden treasuries;

  Where balmy breathings whisper to the heart

  Delights unspeakable! Where seas and skies,

  And hills and vallies, colours, odours, dews,

  Diversify the work of Nature’s God!

  SONNET

  BY THE LATE ROBERT MERRY, ESQ.

  Written at Florence, and addressed to the Countess of .

  SOFT was the smile LOUISA gave,

  And tender was her speaking eye;

  She seem’d to only wish to save

  I felt I only wish’d to die.

  But when she found my love sincere,

  And knew my soul was all her own,

  Her kindness chang’d to scorn severe,

  And then her tyrant pow’r was shewn.

  With cold disdain my breast she tore,

  With taunts my faithful vows repaid;

  She told me “I must hope no more,”

  And made me seek the lonely glade.

  She bade me wander on the beach,

  Or to the nights descending dews,

  ‘The woes of sad experience teach;

  Left me to sorrow and THE MUSE.

  IL AMANTE TIMIDO.

  BY THE SAME.

  TO LAURA.

  IN dreary midnight’s lonely hour,

  When wretched lovers only wake,

  Ten thousand tears, fast falling, pour

  And bathe my bosom for thy sake!

  When morning’s misty eye uncloses,

  And gives the world another day,

>   For THEE (more sweet than vernal roses)

  Ten thousand sighs are breathed away!

  But HE, whose scalding tears are flowing,

  Whose aching breast heaves many a sigh,

  Whose soul with fondest love is glowing,

  Must hide his heart’s first wish, and die!

  SONNET ON READING A DESCRIPTION OF POPE’S GARDENS AT TWICKENHAM.

  BY MISS SEWARD.

  AH, might I range each hallow’d bow’r and glade

  MUSÆUS cultur’d, many a raptur’d sigh

  Would that dear local consciousness supply

  Beneath his willow, in the grotto’s shade,

  Whose roof his hand with ores and shells inlaid!

  How sweet to watch with reverential eye;

  Thro’ the sparr’d arch the streams he survey’d,

  Thou, blue THAMESIS, gently wand’ring by!

  This is THE POET’S triumph; and it towers

  O’er life’s pale ills: his consciousness of powers,

  That lift his Memory from oblivion’s gloom,

  Secures a train of these heart‐thrilling hours,

  By his idea deck’d in raptures bloom,

  For spirits rightly touch’d, thro’ ages yet to come.

  The Poems

  The hamlet of Little Chelsea, along the Fulham Road, in John Rocque’s 1746 map of London. Her father deserted her mother when Robinson was still a child. Without the support of her husband, Hester Darby supported herself and the five children by starting a school for young girls in Little Chelsea, in which Robinson was already teaching by her fourteenth birthday.

  List of Poems in Chronological Order

  A PASTORAL BALLAD.

  PART THE SECOND.

  ANOTHER.

  A PASTORAL ELEGY.

  AN ODE TO WISDOM.

  AN ODE TO CHARITY.

  THE LINNET’S PETITION.

  A CHARACTER.

  WRITTEN ON THE OUTSIDE OF AN HERMITAGE.

  A CHARACTER.

  ODE TO VIRTUE.

  AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

  ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

  THE WISH.

  ON A FRIEND.

  ON THE DEATH OF LORD GEORGE LYTTELTON.

  A CHARACTER.

  ODE TO SPRING.

  LETTER TO A FRIEND ON LEAVING TOWN.

  WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON THE PICTURE OF A FRIEND.

  HYMN TO VIRTUE.

  SONG.

  SONG.

  ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF A LADY.

  TO AURELIA ON HER GOING ABROAD.

  TO LOVE: WRITTEN EXTEMPORE.

  THE COMPLAINT.

  THOUGHTS ON RETIREMENT.

  AN ODE TO CONTENTMENT.