Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Read online

  A CHARACTER.

  How very rare my gen’rous friend we find,

  A woman bless’d with such a virtuous mind,

  A mind, unaw’d by any idle fear,

  A heart which nobly dares to be sincere,

  A soul without ambition, truly great,

  Sprightly, yet wise, and witty, tho’ sedate.

  With ev’ry heav’n-born virtue amply fraught,

  By prudence, piety, and reason taught;

  A bosom, aw’d by chastity and love,

  A tongue, ordain’d, the hardest heart to move;

  An ear, for ever open to the poor,

  A breast, that’s guided by no idle power;

  A form as spotless as her heavenly mind,

  In temper affable, polite, and kind.

  WRITTEN ON THE OUTSIDE OF AN HERMITAGE.

  Stranger beware who’ere thou art,

  How ye profane this shade,

  For know beneath this humble roof,

  No idle cares invade.

  The bright inhabitants within,

  Are grace, and truth divine,

  And sweet contentment dwells secure,

  Beneath this sacred shrine.

  If thou in ought hast been forsworn,

  These hallow’d paths forbear,

  For know the sure reward you’ll meet,

  Is grief and pining care,

  If envy reigns within thy breast,

  Attempt not here to dwell,

  For virtue, piety, and peace,

  Inhabit this sweet cell.

  If malice taints thy secret thoughts,

  Or hatred guides thy heart,

  With caution tread these hallow’d shades,

  And e’er too late depart.

  If high ambition sways thy mind,

  Ah! search no longer here,

  For naught but calm humility,

  Within these walls appear.

  Or if thou art to falsehood prone,

  Or dare with impious hand,

  To deal out mischief or profane,

  High heaven’s supreme command;

  Far from this lowly roof retreat,

  Or pain will be thy share,

  With heart-felt woe and wretched pangs,

  Repentance, and despair.

  For know that grief, and keen remorse,

  Await on guilty deeds,

  But for the gen’rous, just, and good,

  A sure reward succeeds.

  Vice, vanity, and all her train,

  Are strangers to this place,

  Nor dares black artful calumny,

  Shew her destructive face.

  But wisdom, happiness, and joy,

  With charity divine,

  And peace, content, delight, and ease,

  Dwell safe within this shrine.

  No jealous cares invade, or break,

  The calm repose within,

  No voice profane is heard to breath,

  An accent fraught with sin,

  But every joy on earth combin’d,

  Serenely deigns to dwell,

  Uninterrupted, free from care,

  Within this rustic cell.

  Such as delight in virt’ous deeds,

  Are welcome guests and free,

  To reign henceforth without restraint,

  In our society.

  The conscience void of black deceit,

  And all her hateful crew,

  Will find no cares in solitude,

  But joys for ever new.

  The rich (if just) are welcome here,

  The lowly and the poor,

  To such with glad and willing hand,

  We op’e the friendly door.

  But those who dare approach this shrine,

  Whose breast by vice is sway’d,

  Whose mind by avarice and pride,

  To folly is betray’d.

  Whose soul ne’er own’d soft pity’s claim,

  Whose heart ne’er learnt to glow,

  With genial warmth in virtue’s cause,

  Or felt another’s woe.

  Whose only joy in this short life —

  Is pomp and vain desires,

  Who never knew the pure delight,

  A rural life inspires.

  Will find this moss-grown rustic cell,

  For such was ne’er design’d,

  Nor can they gain admittance here,

  Tho’ e’er so much inclin’d.

  Then ah! forbear whoe’er thou art,

  How ye profane this shade,

  For know beneath this simple roof,

  No idle cares invade.

  A CHARACTER.

  If a perfect form can please,

  Join’d with innocence and ease,

  Wit and eloquence refin’d,

  Harmony and judgment join’d,

  Meek and gentle to excess,

  Neat and elegant in dress,

  Charitable, free and gay,

  Blooming as the month of May,

  Foe to art and vanity,

  From deceit and folly free,

  Learned as a female ought,

  Not by idle custom taught;

  Grace in all her steps doth move,

  Beauteous as the queen of love.

  If such charms can please the sight,

  Where all elegance unite,

  Virtue, and fair truth divine,

  The laurel, Juliet be thine.

  ODE TO VIRTUE.

  I

  Hail daughter of th’etherial sky,

  Hail everlasting purity,

  To thee the seraphs and archangels sing,

  Peace to thy altar shall her off’rings bring,

  Free from every earthly woe,

  From every ill that reigns below,

  Welcome thou sweet celestial guest,

  Receive me to thy gentle breast.

  II

  Instruct my unexperienc’d heart,

  And all thy precious gifts impart,

  That my fond soul may learn of thee to prize,

  Joys, which alone from thy fair laws arise,

  To thee, my willing heart aspires,

  Thy name, my tender bosom fires,

  Teach me, then teach me, by thy sacred rules,

  To shun with scorn, the empty joys of fools.

  III

  Learn me to tread the paths of truth,

  And rectify my erring youth,

  That under thy supreme, discerning eye,

  Thy precepts may each action dignify,

  And in life’s perplexing maze,

  May’st thou guide my blinded ways,

  That free from art, from falsehood or disguise,

  Thy solid joys my soul shall learn to prize.

  AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

  I

  Permit me dearest girl to send,

  The warmest wishes of a friend,

  Who scorns deceit, or art,

  Who dedicates her verse to you,

  And every praise so much your due,

  Flows genuine from her heart.

  II

  Yet all that I can write, or say,

  My meaning never can convey,

  My fond intention prove,

  It flows spontaneous from the soul,

  Without restraint, without controul,

  ’Tis gratitude, and love.

  III

  The friendship glowing in my breast,

  Can never, never, be suppress’d,

  While life or sense remain,

  The only recompense I ask,

  To me, would prove an easy task,

  That prize bestow again.

  IV

  How bless’d are you in every joy,

  No care your happiness to cloy,

  No rude unwelcome pain,

  No grief to interrupt your ease,

  But every comfort form’d to please,

  In solitude remain.

  V

  There busy clamours ne’er resound,

  Nor high ambition’s to
be found,

  Or envy’s hateful train,

  But ever happy, ever gay,

  Soft pleasure with despotic sway,

  Holds empire o’er the plain.

  VI

  Along the daisy painted meads,

  New scenes of beauty each succeeds,

  To charm th’enraptured eye,

  Or shelter’d from the noon-tide beams,

  Where cooling grots, and crystal streams,

  Meand’ring murmur by.

  VII

  May heaven-born peace, content, and rest,

  Dwell undisturb’d within that breast,

  From every folly free,

  May health, sincerity, and truth,

  Be the companions of thy youth,

  With meek-ey’d charity.

  VIII

  Adieu, dear girl, accept my love,

  And may Maria never prove,

  Unworthy thy esteem,

  One vow I make to heaven and you,

  This pleasing task I’ll still pursue,

  And make thy praise, my theme.

  ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

  Adieu, dear Emma; — now, alas! no more,

  Deaths icy hand, hath chill’d thy tender frame,

  In endless sighs, the loss I will deplore,

  Revere thy memory, and exalt thy name.

  Let soft humanity incline an ear,

  Let gentle pity listen to my song,

  Let every tender bosom grant a tear,

  And Emma’s virtues, flow from every tongue.

  Her heart was faithful, and her soul sincere,

  Her temper gentle as the turtle dove,

  In person beauteous, and in judgment clear,

  Inspir’d by virtue, and sustain’d by love.

  Her conscious soul unknowing how to feign,

  Was true to honor, and it’s sacred laws,

  Her tender bosom felt another’s pain,

  And glow’d with fervent zeal, in friendship’s cause.

  And yet, alas! these virtues could not save,

  For one short moment, the departing breath,

  Fate had decreed this victim to the grave,

  And all must yield to the cold arms of death.

  Then what avails my misery and grief,

  Can it to life the heavenly maid restore,

  Can tears or wishes now afford relief,

  Or give me back the treasure I deplore.

  Can earthly sorrow add one joy to those,

  Whose pure delight exceeds all human thought,

  Can weak mortality afford repose,

  Greater than that, with which thy soul is fraught.

  Yet friendship, says, the strain, I must prolong,

  Her virtues still demand a generous tear,

  They still require the tributary song,

  A faithful friend her mem’ry to revere.

  While I have life, or memory, or sense,

  To Emma’s kindred shrine my praise is due,

  Her soul was guided by pure innocence,

  Nor envy, nor deceit, her bosom knew.

  She was the first to sing in virtue’s praise,

  To cherish truth in every tender breast,

  And teach the young to tread the potent ways,

  Which lead to glory, and eternal rest.

  Alas! ye gay, consider well her fate,

  Remember life is but a fleeting day,

  Howe’er with affluence bless’d, or soon, or late,

  Death’s cruel summons we must all obey.

  Be innocent, be chaste, from folly free,

  In this precarious life serenely move,

  Submit with patience to just heaven’s decree,

  Be firm in friendship, and sincere in love.

  Let sacred honour guide your erring feet,

  With kind compassion, and with grace divine,

  Let every virtue in your bosoms meet,

  And meek humility, with wisdom join.

  Content, like Emma, in an humble state,

  Seek not for grandeur, or vain pageantry,

  Nor yet with envious eye behold the great;

  The beggar, and the prince, alike must die.

  Then, ah! farewell, my gen’rous, honour’d friend,

  Accept the tear, to thy remembrance due,

  Till memory and feeling has an end,

  Nor worldly pleasures shall my grief subdue.

  May kindred angels waft thy soul to rest,

  May all thy merit meet it’s full reward,

  May you be number’d with the pure and blest,

  And Emma’s spirit be Maria’s guard.

  THE WISH.

  I

  All I ask of bounteous heav’n,

  Is to live a peaceful life,

  In a cottage, sweet retirement,

  Far from giddy noise and strife.

  II

  Far from town, and all its vices,

  Dissipation, care, and fear,

  Passing all my days serenely,

  Ending life, without a tear.

  III

  Far from ball, and masquerade,

  Far from op’ra, park, or play,

  Far from courtly pomp, and fashion,

  Innocently blith and gay.

  IV

  Distant from the madding croud,

  Scene of avarice and gain,

  Quitting smoak for silver fountains,

  Choosing health, and leaving pain.

  V

  Ease, and comfort, peace and plenty,

  Always grace the homely board,

  Every joy that can be wish’d for,

  Does the rustic cot afford.

  VI

  With the lark each morn arising,

  No rude cares my peace molest,

  But contentment sweet possessing,

  Ever happy, ever bless’d.

  VII

  Each new day my maker praising,

  Own his goodness ev’ry hour,

  Thanking heav’n for ev’ry blessing,

  And revere his mighty power.

  VIII

  One thing more I ask of heaven,

  A sincere and faithful youth,

  One whose heart is ever constant,

  Full of honor, love, and truth.

  IX

  Blest with judgment, sound and clear,

  Both the husband, and the friend,

  Not the clown, or foolish coxcomb,

  Such a youth kind heaven send.

  X

  Gentle, as the evening breezes,

  Fanning soft the poplar grove,

  Fresher than the summer morning,

  Firm in friendship, fond in love,

  XI

  Smart, and witty, mild in manners,

  Fair in person as in mind,

  Free from flatt’ry, pride and folly,

  Such a youth I wish to find.

  XII

  I desire not pow’r, or riches,

  Bane to sweet content and ease,

  They are not the joys I wish for,

  They, alas! can never please.

  ON A FRIEND.

  I

  A gentle soul, a beauteous form,

  A voice the coldest breast to warm,

  A heart with love and pity fraught,

  A mind by ev’ry virtue taught,

  With matchless truth, and grace divine,

  O! Corydon, this praise be thine.

  II

  Deign to accept my grateful song,

  To thee alone these lays belong,

  Thy worth my trembling pen inspires,

  Thy eloquence my soul admires,

  And pleas’d I bend before the shrine,

  To sing such wond’rous charms as thine.

  III

  Thou pattern to the human race,

  Thou son of eloquence and grace,

  To thee all elegance belong,

  To thee I chaunt the rustic song,

  Of thee alone my voice I’ll raise,

  And still proclaim my
Shepherd’s praise.

  IV

  A genius matchless and divine,

  Ordain’d above all men to shine,

  A soul unknowing how to feign,

  A heart unus’d to giving pain,

  To sing of thee, the task be mine,

  To praise such matchless charms as thine.

  V

  Ye muses grant me this request,

  May Corydon be ever bless’d,

  May peace propitious smile on thee,

  From every pain and trouble free,

  And may just heaven for ever shine,

  Indulgent o’er such worth as thine.

  VI

  Polite and generous to excess,

  Whose only pleasure is to bless,

  Whose greatest joy is to impart,

  Warm comfort to the bleeding heart,

  Free from base art, or dark design,

  These virtues, Corydon, are thine.

  VII

  In sense, unequal’d, sound and clear,

  In friendship steady, and sincere,

  In actions just, in pity, kind,

  An angel’s form, an angel’s mind,

  Endow’d with every grace divine,

  O! Corydon, this praise be thine.

  VIII

  In thy fond artless breast I find,

  There’s honor, truth, and courage join’d,

  A tongue unwilling to offend,

  Warm to protect an injur’d friend;

  I mean to sing in simple rhyme,

  Such worth, O! Corydon, as thine.

  IX

  To tell the world thy wond’rous fame,

  To celebrate thy heavenly name,

  To do that justice you demand,

  From every true impartial hand,

  That you above each swain may shine,

  For virtues matchless, and divine.

  ON THE DEATH OF LORD GEORGE LYTTELTON.

  I

  Ye chrystal streams, ye murm’ring floods,

  Ye lonely groves, and silent woods,

  Ye flow’ry meads, and tow’ring hills,

  Ye mossy fountains, purling rills,

  Ah! mourn, your honour’d genius fled,

  For Lyttelton, alas! is dead.

  II

  No more your beauties can inspire,

  No more awake the tender lyre,

  No more your shades can yield delight,

  The landscape fades upon the sight,

  All joy, all pleasure, now is fled,

  For Lyttelton, alas! is dead.

  III

  That Lyttelton, by science hail’d,

  That Lyttelton, who never fail’d

  To warm the breast that nobly glow’d,

  With heat that from true virtue flow’d,

  Then Hagley mourn, your genius fled,

  Alas! your honour’d muse is dead.

  IV

  That patron whom the world approv’d,