Collected Poetical Works of Mary Robinson Page 6
No giddy prattle e’er betray’d,
A want of prudence, or of sense,
But ev’ry accent from thy tongue,
Is blended with pure eloquence.
VII
Thy charms have fill’d each swain with love,
Thy virtue ev’ry bosom fir’d;
Thou art the goddess of the plains,
By all confess’d, by all admir’d.
VIII
Long have I own’d a faithful flame,
A captive to your charms confess’d,
Yet never mov’d one tender sigh,
One spark of pity in thy breast.
To each that tells his love-sick tale,
Matilda, thou art gay and free.
To ev’ry youth polite and just
But ah, alas! unkind to me.
Captivity: A Poem; and, Celadon and Lydia: A Tale
CONTENTS
DEDICATION TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.
CAPTIVITY.
CELADON AND LYDIA.
The first edition’s title page
DEDICATION TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.
MADAM,
YOUR Grace’s Partiality to these imperfect Lines has emboldened me to use your kind Permission, of dedicating them to you, the friendly Patroness of the Unhappy.To paint those Virtues, which dignify your Grace’s exalted Situation, would appear in me an idle Presumption; but I cannot publish these Verses, and not take the occasion of repeating my Thanks to you, for the unmerited Favors your Grace has bestowed upon,
Madam,
Your Grace’s
Most obliged,
And most devoted Servant,
MARIA ROBINSON.
NOTE.
THE Author flatters herself with the pleasing hope, that her Youth will plead an Excuse for those Errors, which the Eye of Criticism will discover in the following little Poems.
CAPTIVITY.
WHILE bright-ey’d Science crowns this favor’d Isle,
And Wisdom o’er the nation deigns to smile,
While genuine Knowledge fills each ample page,
And many a Bard adorns this happy age:
Say, shall a Female’s soaring breast aspire,
To boast what Genius only can acquire?
The partial Friend’s applause she may obtain,
But if she hopes for more, — she hopes in vain.
The Captive’s woe inspires the bold essay;
Ye Nine, assist the weak untutor’d lay:
An humble vot’ry at your shrine confess’d,
Pours forth the dictates of an artless breast;
In Nature’s unaffected voice, she sings
The tale which only from Compassion Springs;
The Wretches’ fate her genial Soul inspires,
And kindred Pity all her bosom fires.
If the Benevolent, the gen’rous few,
Captivity, and all its horrors knew,
Then would the Sighs of grief ne’er heave in vain,
Or Misery’s unheeded voice complain.
Shall the unhappy bosom, doom’d to share
The frowns of Fortune and the pangs of Care,
Unstain’d with Vice, just, eloquent and brave,
Bow down Submissive to the wealthy knave?
Or to the fool his humble tale reveal
(Which Poverty forbids him to conceal)?
Alas! e’en then perhaps in vain his grief
He murmurs forth, in vain implores relief;
The peace-crown’d Bosom Seldom learns to melt,
Or kindly pities, what it never felt.
Bear me, sweet Freedom, on thy downy wing,
Teach me of thy Superior Joys to Sing,
Teach my fond Muse to wing its infant flight,
To that Sweet scene where purest charms invite;
Where guiltless pleasures reign without controul,
And godlike virtues harmonize the Soul.
Sweet Liberty, to thee a Female pays
The slender tribute of these votive lays.
No pedant rules thy airy steps restrain,
Fair blooming Goddess of the rustic plain.
How bless’d the Village-maiden’s humble lot,
To tend her flocks, and cheer the straw-roof’d cot;
To greet the stranger at the friendly door,
To bless the generous, and relieve the poor;
With innate tenderness, her dove-like breast
Melts at the tale of Innocence distress’d:
True to her Lover, and to Virtue true,
A wish to change her state she never knew;
Their mutual passions breathe in every sigh,
And calm Contentment Smiles in each fond eye;
The bloom of Health Spreads genuine o’er her cheek,
Where artless “blushes eloquently Speak.”
Sweet Freedom, genius of the verdant plain,
And rosy Health, with all thy blooming train,
Before thy shrine, (as far as Virtue may)
I own thy power, and bless thy gentle sway.
’Tis not in Vice thy ample charms are found,
Or in excess of wealth thy joys abound.
First, my soft Muse the dreary scene unfolds
Where Misery Supreme her empire holds;
Where black Despair, with every ill replete,
In awful Sadness, holds her lasting seat;
Where doom’d to every grief, to every pain,
The hopeless Captive drags the galling chain.
Low on a bed of straw the mourner lies,
Cold drops upon his pallid temples rise;
Perhaps, a tender Partner shares his grief,
Perhaps, a friendless infant craves relief:
A thousand passions tear his woe-fraught breast,
A thousand tender fears disturb his rest;
Not for himself he murmurs, but for those,
The guiltless Partners of his poignant woes;
Unnumber’d pangs his erring breast assail,
And Justice holds aloft her even Scale.
Despair, (the offspring of unpitied woe)
With every ill the avenging Gods bestow,
Invokes the icy Hand of Death to stay,
And bids him live, to every grief a prey.
O’er the lone cell a Solemn stillness reigns,
Save, where the voice of Misery complains;
Save, where the tortur’d mind implores relief
In sighs repentant, and unfeigned grief;
Where keen Remorse her constant vigils keep;
And pining Victims live alone to weep.
Methinks! See the Wretch absorb’d in tears.
Surrounded by a thousand anxious fears;
One moment, Resignation’s rays divine
O’er his sad breast with peace seraphic shine;
The next, e’en Hope her balmy power denies,
And woes successive o’er his bosom rise;
The trembling accents of his fault’ring breath,
Proclaim the near, the kind approach of Death;
O extacy of thought! “Thou welcome Friend,”
He faintly cries, “My sorrows quickly end!
“Receive me to thy arms, and let me prove,
“That thou hast power each agony to sooth;
“So shall each crime, each error be forgiven,
“For Mercy’s the peculiar gift of Heaven.”
Description fails; let Fancy Speak the rest,
Those who have seen such woes can paint them best.
Such are the griefs which claim the heart-felt sigh,
And force the feeling drop from Pity’s eye:
Who can: Humanity’s soft power subdue,
Or who unmov’d, the Captive’s misery view?
Where dwells the soul against Compassion steel’d,
Or who disdains the generous tear to yield?
If Such there are, (forbid it, bounteous Heaven!)
May all their crimes hereafter be f
orgiven,
And may the injur’d Powers on them bestow,
That Pity, they refuse to others’ woe.
How rarely in the giddy breast is found
(That breast where Peace and Affluence abound,
Amid the joys of Luxury and Mirth)
Compassion for the woes of Suffering worth!
How many feel the pressing hand of death;
And with a struggling pang resign their, breath!
How many round the bed of Sickness wait,
With anxious eye, to watch a Parent’s fate!
How many plunge beneath the foaming wave,
And sink enervate to a watry grave!
How many in the midnight lonely hour,
Are doom’d to feel the flames’ destructive power!
How many, chill’d by Poverty’s cold hand,
Sharp Famine feel — tho’ in a fruitful land!
Or, meanly bow’d beneath the tyrant’s Sway,
To false Ambition sink a wretched prey!
Propitious Muse, who guards the Poet’s Head,
Still o’er his Breast your warmest influence shed,
Still bind his temples with unfading flowers,
And prompt Sweet Fancy, with her winning powers;
Whose genial aid unnumber’d joys impart,
Whose dictates soften, and inspire the heart;
Frown not on me, the lowliest in your train,
No proud applause my artless tale can gain:
At Pity’s shrine my humble vows I pay,—’
And soft Humanity inspires the lay:
For thee alone, I court the pensive Muse,
For thee, Captivity’s the theme I chuse;
For thee alone, I soar on Fancy’s wing,
Alone from thee, my young ideas Spring;
No other views my slender efforts claim,
Untaught by Wisdom, and unknown to Fame;
I heed not what the giddy throng may Say,
If Heaven-born Charity approves the lay.
Of other woes my Infant Muse shall sing,
Woes, which from undeserv’d misfortunes Spring,
Such as the generous and brave may fear,
Such as the noble mind hath felt severe.
There’s many a breast which Virtue only Sways,
In Sad Captivity hath pass’d its days,
Unheeded to complain, by wretches bound,
In whose hard bosoms pity’s seldom found,
(Fortune, to genuine Virtue often blind,
Smiles on the base, yet shuns the generous mind).
All ills attend his undelighted soul,
And restless thoughts impatient of controul,
Each new-born day each flatt’ring hope annoys,
For what is life, depriv’d of Freedom’s joys?
The greedy Creditor, whose flinty breast
The iron hand of Avarice hath press’d,
Who never own’d Humanity’s soft claim,
Self-interest and Revenge his only aim,
Unmov’d, can hear the Parent’s heart-felt sigh,
Unmov’d, can hear the helpless Infant cry.
Nor age, nor sex, his rigid breast can melt,
Unfeeling for the pangs, he never felt.
Who scorns the balm of Pity to bestow,
Or sigh responsive for the Wretch’s woe,
His hardy Soul, unwilling to impart
The godlike feelings of a liberal heart,
Unpitying views the Sable Scene of Woe,
Nor wipes the pearly tear, he taught to flow.
Hard is the fate of him ordain’d to share,
The bold inquietudes of grief and care,
Peace (god-like maid) on lofty pinion flies,
Far from his breast, and seeks her native Skies;
No more his mind with lenient art she cheers,
No more his drooping soul she fondly rears;
Of every friendly gleam of joy bereft,
Hope is the only comfort he has left;
Taught by her power, he every pang sustains,
And meekly learns to Smile at all his pains;
Tho’ to his lot unnumber’d woes are given,
He yields Submissive, to all-judging Heaven.
Within the dreary Prison’s Solemn shade,
(For keen Affliction’s wretched offsprings made)
The child of Misery’s ordain’d to lay,
Secluded from the cheerful beams of day;
Forc’d from each bliss, from every power remov’d
By which the Sweets of life he daily prov’d;
The much-lov’d partner of his bosom torn,
Far from his breast, for ever doom’d to mourn;
Condemn’d to shorten Use’s contracted Span,
A guiltless victim, to the laws of man.
’Twas ne’er ordain’d by Providence divine,
That sad Misfortune should be deem’d a crime;
The powers unkind decree one common fate,
Alike the guilty, and the just await;
One dungeon holds the coward, and the brave,
The child of Virtue, and ignoble slave.
Hail! meek Tranquility, celestial maid,
To thee my ardent vows be ever paid!
Thy genuine pleasures teach me how to prove,
And far from giddy Pride my thoughts remove
To those Sweet haunts where Peace each hour beguiles,
And native Innocence for ever Smiles.
Thy cherub countenance, and brow serene,
Thy voice all sweetness, and thy placid mien,
Proclaim thee Goddess of the rural plain,
The pride and fav’rite of each artless Swain.
Permit me, gentle maid, with thee to rove
O’er the wide heath, or in the woodbine grove,
Or to the hospitable cottage, free
To ample Virtue’s pure Society,
Where innate Goodness, unadorn’d by Art,
At once expands, and dignifies the heart;
Where rural Mirth, and Health go hand in hand,
And joys extatic cheer the rustic band.
As thro’ life’s transient Scene I pensive stray,
Deign, lovely maid, to guide my lonely way;
Secure from Malice and from Envy’s dart,
Ah, shield my young, my unexperienc’d heart,
Let thy glad presence reign where’er I tread,
And round my paths your kindest influence shed:
I ask not wealth, an humbler lot be mine,
The lowliest votry, at the Muses shrine.
Grant me, indulgent Heaven, a small retreat,
Not idly gay, but elegantly neat;
Free of access for ever be the door,
To the benevolent, and friendless poor;
Far from the town, in Some Secluded shade,
For blooming Health, and Meditation made;
There would I rove amid the Sweets of Spring,
And hear the feather’d choir exulting sing,
To view each varied Scene, and Sweets exhale
Which breathe in every flow’r, in every gale,
Where Nature opes the vegetable Scene,
And plenteous fields display a vivid green;
Where all the raptures of unsullied Ease,
Combine at once to elevate and please;
Thus let me live, bless’d with a social friend,
In whom good humour and affection blend:
For joys like these, from giddy Scenes I’d fly,
To live unenvied, and unknown to die.
Round the wide world, thro’ all its vast domain,
From Britain’s Isle, to Afric’s Scorching plain,
From blooming Gallia’s health-inspiring shores,
To where tremendous Etna fiercely roars;
From the proud palace, to the clay-built cot,
The statesman’s greatness, to the peasant’s lot,
Sweet Liberty, delights the free-born mind,
Which laws and fetters have not power to bind;
The wretched Slave, inur’d to every pain,
By her inspir’d, disdains the Captive’s chain
Oppress’d with labour, murmuring they go,
And curse the source whence all their miseries flow;
Fainting and Sad, they bend their toilsome way
Thro’ all the burning heats of Sultry day;
From every comfort, every pleasure driven,
Robb’d of the common gifts of bounteous Heaven
Taught by experienc’d Cruelty to find,
That Savage baseness taints the human mind,
Their mingled griefs in plaintive murmurs flow,
With all the energy of heart-felt woe;
Still one kind thought the ruling Pow’rs ordain,
With lenient art to Sooth each anxious pain,
Whatever punishment the Fates decree
For erring mortals, — still the mind is free!
What bliss can all the pageantry of Show,
Or all the charms of Luxury, bestow?
Reflect, ye giddy throng, while thus you gaze
On the gay world, with rapture and amaze,
While in the rich illumin’d Scene you tread,
By festive Mirth and smiling Fancy led;
Think, while you revel in the midnight dome,
How many pine within a dungeon’s gloom;
Think, while you court soft Pleasure’s gilded train,
How many languish with disease and pain;
Then, with what joy you may, pursue your plan,
And shut your hearts to Pity, — if you can!
Bless’d be the day, when native Virtue deigns
Again to visit England’s fertile plains;
When real worth Shall meet with just applause,
And every bosom glow, in Friendship’s cause;
When every free-born Briton shall revere
Those Sacred Laws to Honor ever dear;
When jarring Discord, and tumultuous Strife,
No more shall Sour the transient Scene of life;
When proud Oppression shall to Virtue bend,
And honest Zeal with mild Compassion blend;
When Truth no more the flatt’rer’s voice shall fear,
And blacken’d Falshood Sooth the rich man’s ear;
When pallid Calumny shall hide her face,
And Heaven-born Pity find a welcome place:
Then shall the Muse resume her native state,
And with exulting firmness stand elate;
Then shall the Gen’rous bend before the shrine
Where Peace and Truth with equal lustre Shine;
Then shall the Farmer view his fruitful fields,
Replete with every blessing Nature yields;