Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Read online

  Whom justice hail’d, and honor lov’d,

  Whose bosom felt soft pity’s claim,

  Till time and nature shook his frame,

  Then mourn, soft muse, your patron’s fled,

  For Lyttelton, alas! is dead.

  V

  In Hagley’s pensive fair retreat,

  The virtues and the graces meet,

  Amid’ the cool sequestred shade,

  Oft has this heav’n-born genius stray’d,

  But now, alas! your charms are fled,

  For Lyttelton your muse is dead.

  VI

  Ye warbling choristers give o’er,

  And swell your downy throats no more,

  Ah! to what purpose, to what end,

  Will your soft plaintive notes now tend,

  Him whom ye strove to charm is fled,

  For Lyttelton, alas! is dead.

  VII

  Ye purling streams, your bubling cease,

  Each murmur does my pain increase;

  Ye flowers now droop your fragrant heads,

  And kiss your clay cold mould’ring beds,

  For every joy on earth is fled,

  For generous Lyttelton is dead.

  VIII

  Ye sister muses ever mourn,

  With laurels bind your patron’s urn,

  To his fair altar quickly bring,

  Each tribute of the blooming spring,

  And o’er his honour’d sacred head,

  Your kindred influence ever spread.

  A CHARACTER.

  Generous, and good, sincere, and void of art,

  Blest with a tender, yet an honest heart,

  Humane, and affable, to vice a foe,

  Neither too much the rustic, or the beau:

  Polite, and friendly, comely, good, and kind,

  Foe to deceit, to virtue most inclin’d.

  Fearless of danger, in a noble cause,

  A firm supporter of fair honor’s laws,

  Kind heaven has given him all the charms of youth,

  And in his soul shines honesty, and truth,

  Esteem’d by many, and by most approv’d,

  By Delia honour’d, and by Delia lov’d.

  ODE TO SPRING.

  I

  No more shall winter’s veil be spread,

  Or clouds deform the tranquil sky,

  Again shall spring her treasure shed,

  To charm the sense, and please the eye.

  To future ages shall the muses sing,

  Hail, genial goddess, of the blooming spring.

  II

  Thou youthful season of the year,

  Whose joys can banish every smart,

  Clad in thy vernal sweets appear,

  To soften and inspire the heart,

  To future ages shall the muses sing,

  Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

  III

  When I behold thy gifts around,

  The groves, with thy fair glories shine,

  And ev’ry flow’r that paints the ground,

  Declares that influence divine.

  To future ages shall the muses sing,

  Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

  IV

  Thy pow’r, supreme, all nature feels,

  Each tender plant, thy hand doth raise,

  Each fruit and shrub thy bounty yields,

  Eternally confirms thy praise.

  To future ages shall the muses sing,

  Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

  V

  Enliven’d by thy chearful face,

  The bleeting lambs, and lowing herd,

  And all the infant feather’d race,

  At once are waken’d and inspir’d,

  To future ages shall the muses sing,

  Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

  VI

  Then welcome, welcome to our view,

  Each gift thy bounteous hand bestows,

  Still, still, thy heavenly scenes renew,

  And all thy precious joys disclose.

  To future ages shall the muses sing,

  Hail, genial Goddess, of the blooming spring.

  LETTER TO A FRIEND ON LEAVING TOWN.

  Gladly I leave the town, and all its care,

  For sweet retirement, and fresh wholsome air,

  Leave op’ra, park, the masquerade, and play,

  In solitary groves to pass the day.

  Adieu, gay throng, luxurious vain parade,

  Sweet peace invites me to the rural shade,

  No more the Mall, can captivate my heart,

  No more can Ranelagh, one joy impart.

  Without regret I leave the splendid ball,

  And the inchanting shades of gay Vauxhall,

  Far from the giddy circle now I fly,

  Such joys no more, can please my sicken’d eye.

  The town’s alluring scenes no more can charm,

  Nor dissipation my fond breast alarm;

  Where vice and folly has each bosom fir’d,

  And what is most absurd, — is most admir’d.

  Alas! what diff’rence ‘twixt the town bred fair,

  And the blith maid who breaths the purer air.

  Whose life is innocent, whose thoughts are clear,

  Whose soul is gentle, and whose heart sincere.

  Bless’d with her swain, she wants no greater joy,

  Nor fears inconstancy, her bliss can cloy,

  No anxious fears invade her tranquil breast,

  The peaceful mansion of content and rest.

  But rich in every virtue, void of art,

  She feels those joys, truth only can impart.

  View the gay courtly dame, and mark her face,

  Where art supply’s fair nature’s nobler place,

  Luxurious pleasures, all her days divide,

  And fashion taints, bright beauty’s greatest pride.

  Each action has its fixt and settled rule,

  Eyes, limbs, and features, are all put to school.

  Beaux without number, daily round her swarm,

  And each with fulsome flatt’ry try’s to charm.

  Till, like the rose, which blooms but for an hour,

  Her face grown common, loses all its power.

  Each idle coxcomb leaves the wretched fair,

  Alone to languish, and alone despair,

  To cards, and dice, the slighted maiden flies,

  And every fashionable vice apply’s,

  Scandal and coffee, pass the morn away,

  At night a rout, an opera, or a play;

  Thus glide their life, partly through inclination,

  Yet more, because it is the reigning fashion.

  Thus giddy pleasures they alone pursue,

  Merely because, they’ve nothing else to do;

  Whatever can afford their hearts delight,

  No matter if the thing be wrong, or right;

  They will pursue it, tho’ they be undone,

  They see their ruin, — still they venture on.

  Prudence they hate, grave wisdom they despise,

  And laugh at those who teach them to be wise.

  Pleas’d they embark upon the dangerous tide,

  And with the fashionable current glide;

  Till fate has every wish and purpose cross’d,

  Their health, their beauty, and their fortune loss’d:

  No art their wanted youth can then repair,

  Abandon’d to remorse, and keen despair,

  Repentant sighs, their wretched bosom wound,

  And happiness, alas! no more is found.

  In some sequester’d shade alone they stray,

  And pensive waste, the solitary day.

  Till fate relieves the wretched maid from grief,

  And death affords, a long and last relief.

  These are the follies that engage the mind,

  And taint the principles, of half mankind,

  Then wonder
not my friend, that I can leave,

  Those transcient pleasures, only born to grieve.

  Those short-liv’d shadows of a fleeting day,

  Those idle customs of the rich and gay.

  Henceforth, retirement, is my chosen seat,

  Far from the insolent, the vain, the great.

  Sweet solitude, ah! welcome to my breast,

  And with thee welcome, sweet content, and rest;

  Farewell ambition, source of every pain,

  Farewell pale malice, and thy hateful train:

  Farewell black calumny, no more thy dart,

  Shall force one sigh, or wound my placid heart.

  My future days, shall with sweet peace abound,

  By friendship, virtue, and experience crown’d.

  WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON THE PICTURE OF A FRIEND.

  I

  Within this narrow compass is confin’d,

  A form possess’d of every pleasing grace,

  The matchless beauties of whose heav’nly mind,

  Cou’d ne’er be painted in so small a space.

  II

  Let every praise so much the artist’s due,

  With never-ceasing honors on him fall,

  Yet when this bright similitude I view,

  I mourn the loss of the original.

  III

  To fames exalted summit be thou rais’d,

  And move sublime in a distinguish’d sphere,

  Where wond’ring mortals shall behold amaz’d,

  Those lasting honors which the just revere.

  IV

  Above the malice of the artful mind,

  Above the envious, ignorant, and vain,

  Above the reach of slanderous mankind,

  Whose greatest pleasure is another’s pain.

  V

  Thou chiefest wonder that adorns the age,

  Still, still, the paths of fame and truth pursue,

  Thy name shall celebrate some future page,

  Some yet unheard of muse shall sing of you.

  HYMN TO VIRTUE.

  I

  Divine inhabitant of heaven,

  To whom superior power is given,

  Ah! deign to guide my will,

  Teach me to shun deceit and art,

  To own a feeling, generous heart,

  And guard my mind from ill.

  II

  When thou appearest (lovely maid,)

  With all thy wond’rous charms display’d,

  With modest, gentle eye,

  Pleas’d I behold thy matchless grace,

  Thy beauteous form, thy blooming face,

  Fair daughter of the sky.

  III

  Thou guide to youth, support to age,

  Direct the young, advise the sage,

  Shew them the road to fame,

  They who thy counsels do revere,

  Inspir’d by thee can never err,

  Or stain thy sacred name.

  IV

  If it’s your wish ye blooming fair,

  To live content, be this your care,

  Make truth your constant rule,

  Let wise experience, teach you sense,

  With modesty, and innocence,

  Improve in virtues school.

  V

  Ne’er trust to fortune, fickle dame,

  Nor play with honor’s sacred name,

  Be cautious how ye stray,

  Let prudence govern all your heart,

  Beware of flatt’rys venom’d dart,

  Nor tread the slip’ry way.

  VI

  Be it my task to sing thy praise,

  In virtues cause my voice I’ll raise,

  And all my time employ,

  A recompence I largely find,

  A peaceful conscience, quiet mind,

  A life of heartfelt joy.

  SONG.

  I

  As Cupid wanton, giddy child,

  Was rambling throw the shade,

  To mischief prown, the urchin wild,

  Beheld a sleeping maid.

  But how to wound her gentle breast,

  A quick suggestion rose,

  When ev’ry sense was lull’d to rest,

  In peaceful, calm repose.

  II

  He chang’d his figure in a trice,

  To Strephon’s, blith and young,

  Then gently tapt her elbow thrice,

  And thus divinely sung.

  “Ah beauteous maid no longer scorn,

  “A generous, constant swain,

  “My breast with anxious pangs is torn,

  “I pine with ceaseless pain.

  III

  “Be gone she cried, and henceforth know,

  “Such boldness ne’er could move,

  “A breast to mean deceit a foe,

  “Yet ah! a friend to love.

  “The youth who aims to gain my heart,

  “Must prove his constancy,

  “Confess’d a foe, to every art,

  “From vice, and folly free.

  IV

  A quiver then the urchin drew,

  Well stor’d with pointed darts,

  And cry’d “fair nymph in me you view,

  “The sov’reign of all hearts.

  “To try your truth I only came,

  “Your gentle breast to move,

  “Thou, goddess, henceforth I proclaim,

  “Of virtue, and of love.

  SONG.

  I

  Ye crystal fountains, softly flow,

  Ye gentle gales, ah! cease to blow,

  For know my blooming constant swain,

  Doth calmly sleep, on yonder plain.

  II

  Propitious pow’rs, afford that rest,

  Which ever dwelt within his breast,

  With caution guard his radiant charms,

  And shield his heart, from rude alarms.

  III

  Around my love, ye violets spring,

  In plaintive notes, ye warblers sing,

  Ye roses bloom, about his head,

  And sweetly scent, his mossy bed.

  IV

  Ye little Cupids, quickly bring,

  Each green, that decks the verdant spring,

  There form a sweet sequest’red grove,

  And hide secure, my beauteous love.

  ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF A LADY.

  To hail Louisa, this auspicious day,

  Ye sister muses annual tribute pay.

  Ye sons of science, greet this happy morn,

  On which my gen’rous, honor’d, friend was born.

  My ardent wishes, gentle maid receive,

  My steady friendship, and my love believe.

  Health and contentment, crown thy youthful days,

  And sacred honor, guide thy peaceful ways,

  Plenty and ease, thy constant help-mates be,

  From malice, envy, and oppression free,

  May fortune smile, propitious o’er thy life,

  And guard thy gentle breast from care and strife.

  Thus pass thy moments innocently gay,

  And joys arise, with each revolving day,

  That when grim death, shall spread his shadows round,

  With bliss eternal, may thy life be crown’d.

  TO AURELIA ON HER GOING ABROAD.

  Farewell, my friend, good angels waft thee o’er,

  And guard thee safely to Italia’s shore.

  Propitious powers on all thy steps await,

  Mild as thy gentle bosom — be thy fate.

  Serene and calm be every moment past,

  May each revolving day approve the last;

  Pure as thyself may all thy friendships prove.

  And may’st thou find sincerity in love.

  Be cautious, fair Aurelia, how you trust,

  To fickle man — for few alas are just.

  If at love’s altar you resign your heart,

  Let well try’d constancy direct the dart.

  May sweet contentment cr
own the fleeting hours,

  And strew thy paths with ever blooming flow’rs.

  May no unwelcome pain disturb thy rest,

  No anxious cares invade thy gen’rous breast;

  But every earthly bliss on thee attend,

  And keep from insult my much honor’d friend.

  When thou art landed on the distant isle,

  Think of our friendship past, and deign to smile:

  For know Aurelia’s love I value more,

  Then all the gems of India’s wealthy shore.

  The laws of sacred virtue still protect,

  Nor let my friendship meet a cold neglect.

  Let not sad absence banish from thy mind,

  Those faithful vows which once our hearts did bind.

  Those gen’rous ties of truth, ah! ne’er resign,

  For seldom love is more sincere than mine;

  I boast no more than truth has pow’r t’impart,

  A faithful, feeling, undissembling heart.

  Seek not the splendid cares of shining courts,

  For hidden sorrow with the great resorts.

  Unbidden grief lurks in the dark disguise,

  And heav’n-born peace her cheering ray denys.

  Sweet mediocrity to thee alone,

  Superior joys are most distinctly known.

  Bestow your choicest gifts ye sacred nine,

  On greater souls — simplicity be mine.

  TO LOVE: WRITTEN EXTEMPORE.

  I

  Resistless power, ah! wherefore reign,

  Alone among the rural train,

  Is it because you seldom find,

  The giddy throng to truth inclin’d.

  II

  Ah! wherefore in the modish breast,

  Art thou so rarely found a guest,

  Must fashion occupy thy place,

  And custom, hymens charms efface.

  III

  Alas! how few are born to prove,

  The joys of undissembled love,

  How few can boast a gen’rous flame,

  Inspir’d by virtue’s sacred name.

  IV

  Is it because thou’rt partial grown,

  And yield to beauties power alone,

  Must merit plead her right in vain,

  And mourn for truth’s unpity’d pain.

  V

  In vain is every grace combin’d,

  To elevate the youthful mind,

  If nature joins not to disclose,

  The lilly and the blushing rose.

  VI

  Ye youths of this licentious age,

  No more in idle cares engage,

  No longer artful scenes pursue,

  But grant to merit — all its due.

  THE COMPLAINT.