Mary Darby Robinson (1758-1800)

Biography: Bibliography: Additional Selections:

Mrs. Robinson
from an Engraving by Birch after Reynolds

Biography:

• Mary Darby
• Mrs Robinson
• Perdita and Florizel
• Ban and Mary
• The Authoress
• A Winter's Tale

"Every event of my life has more or less been marked by the progressive evils of a too acute sensibility."

(Mary Darby Robinson, The Memoirs of Mary Robinson, p. 8)

If Mary Darby Robinson's life was marked by the acute sensibility which she claimed for herself, it was also marked by a degree of instability and unpredictability that would have encouraged many people to indulge in strong hysterics, whatever their sensibilities!

Mary Darby

Mary Darby was born November 27th, 1758. She was the third of five children born to John Darby and his wife Hester Seys. When Mary was seven, Captain Darby went to Labrador to try to establish a whaling station, leaving his wife and family in Bristol, and taking his mistress with him. Financial support from Captain Darby was infrequent, reflecting both the failure of his business speculations, and a lack of interest in his wife and family that eventually culminated in a formal separation.

The family's uncertain finances were a cause of frequent relocations which affected Mary's education. She was a precocious child, professing a love of melancholy poetry by age seven. In Bristol, she attended a school run by the sisters of Hannah More. When the family removed to London, she went to the seminary of Meribah Lorrington in Chelsea. Mary Darby's recollections of Lorrington were fond ones, and she later considered Lorrington a formative influence in her life. Unfortunately, while Meribah Lorrington was a teacher of many accomplishments (lessons included Latin, French, Italian, arithmetic, astronomy, and painting on silk), she had an 'unfeminine propensity' for alcohol, which eventually led to the closure of the school. Mary was briefly sent to another school, but returned home when her father failed to pay his expected remittence.

Mrs Darby, in desperation, started her own school to support the family. She took in between 10 and 12 boarders, all girls. Mary Darby taught English at her mother's school by age fourteen. However, Captain Darby disliked the scheme, and during one of his brief returns, closed the school. According to English law (See Caroline Norton, English Laws for Women) any property or business under his wife's control was legally his to do with it as he chose. Mary was sent to a finishing school in Oxford St., Marylebone, run by a Mrs. Hervey. While there, she was brought to the attention of David Garrick, the famous actor. (See "Elegy to the Memory of David Garrick, Esq.") Although she was only fifteen, it was proposed that Mary go on stage.

"Garrick was delighted with everything I did. He would sometimes dance a minuet with me, sometimes request me to sing the favourite ballads of the day; but the circumstance which most pleased him was my tone of voice, which he frequently told me closely resembled that of his favourite Cibber.

Never shall I forget the enchanting hours which I passed in Mr. Garrick's society; he appeared to me as one who possessed more power, both to awe and to attract, than any man I ever met with. His smile was fascinating, but he had at times a restless peevishness of tone which excessively affected his hearers; at least it affected me so that I never shall forget it. " (Mary Darby Robinson, The Memoirs of Mary Robinson, pp. 37-38.)

Mrs Robinson

While Garrick's proposal was attractive in many ways, Mary had already received more than one proposal of another sort. Though her suitor believed her to be older, she had received her first proposal of marriage at age 13. She was now being courted by a young man named Thomas Robinson. He was presented to the Darbys as a man of good family, and he eventually won Mary's mother's support, as much as hers, for the marriage.

"Opposite to the house in which I resided lived John Vernon, Esq., an eminent solicitor. I observed a young inmate of his habitation frequently watching me with more than ordinary attention. He was handsome in person, and his countenance was overcast by a sort of langour, the effect of sickness, which rendered it peculiarly interesting. ... During the remainder of the evening, Mr Wayman expatiated on the many good qualities of his friend, Mr. Robinson: spoke of his future expectations from a rich old uncle; of his probably advancement in his profession; and, more than all, of his enthusiastic admiration of me." (Mary Darby Robinson, The Memoirs of Mary Robinson, pp. 38-39)

The marriage took place on April 12, 1774. Thomas Robinson convinced the Darbys to keep the marriage secret even after the ceremony, supposedly because his articles to Mssrs. Vernon & Elderton had not yet expired. It soon became apparent that much of what they had been told was fabricated. Thomas Robinson was an illegitimate son with few, if any, expectations. When Mary became pregnant, Mrs Darby insisted that the marriage be made public. The young couple travelled to Wales to see Robinson's family, and then returned to London.

There, the Robinsons settled into a lifestyle far beyond their means. Mary bought expensive clothes, and wandered to Vauxhall and Ranelagh Gardens. Thomas Robinson gambled for high stakes with a set of fast-living, hard-drinking friends. They included Lord Lyttelton, a notorious libertine who made no secret of his interest in Mary Robinson. Thomas Robinson had quickly acquired a mistress, one Harriet Wilmot, and seemed unconcerned about the possibility of his wife becoming involved with his wealthy friend.

Eventually, Robinson's creditors became so demanding that he fled to his father's in Wales, taking Mary with him. There, their daughter Maria Elizabeth was born, on November 18th, 1774. (See "Sonnet. To My Beloved Daughter. ") When creditors learned of Thomas' whereabouts some weeks later, the family fled to Mary's grandmother in Monmouth. Thomas temporarily appeased his creditors, but was finally arrested for debts of about £1200.

Thomas, Mary and the baby lived in King's Bench prison for over a year. Thomas became involved with an Italian woman in the prison. Mary cooked, cleaned, and looked after the baby. She earned a little money by copying legal documents, work that was offered to Thomas by friends. She also obtained assistance from Georgiana, the Duchess of Devonshire. Mary had already planned a volume of Poems (1775). She sent a copy to the Duchess of Devonshire, who invited her to visit. Though Poems received little critical support, and made little money, Mary Robinson continued to write, dedicating Captivity, A Poem: and Celadon and Lydia, A Tale (1777) to the Duchess of Devonshire. While Mary later professed a general dislike of her own sex, she remembered with fondness the kindness of this patron. (See "Sonnet Inscribed to Her Grace the Dutchess of Devonshire. ").

After 15 months in prison, Thomas Robinson finally negotiated his release. Mary returned to the theatre in hopes of supporting her family by acting. After meeting with William Brereton, David Garrick, and Richard Brinsley Sheridan, she was engaged at Drury Lane. In her initial appearance as Juliet in December 1776, she was recognized as a promising new actress. She continued to act for the next four seasons, to increasing acclaim. She took on a range of roles, sometimes playing multiple parts in the same week, or even night. She even appeared in a musical farce of her own writing, The Lucky Escape (1778). However, mixed with her success were sadness and distress: her second child, Sophia, died when only a few months old; and her husband's debts and the possibility of imprisonment were a continuing source of concern.

Perdita and Florizel

Mary Robinson appeared in her most famous (and infamous) role at age 21, a four-year veteran of the stage. Her success as Perdita in A Winter's Tale led to a royal request for a command performance. On December 3, 1779, the 17-year-old Prince of Wales (later King George IV) determined to make her his mistress. Lord Malden was sent to negotiate with her on the Prince's behalf. A hot exchange of letters ensued between "Perdita" and "Florizel", and the prince paid her marked attentions in public. Papparazzi of the time, such as the Morning Post and Morning Herald, were quick to scent a scandal, and began to link her with both the prince and Lord Malden.

In addition to letters vowing eternal affection, the prince sent gifts which included a miniature portrait, set in diamonds, and a bond of £20,000, to be paid when he came of age. At one point, Mary Robinson became ill, something that often happened when she was under severe stress. Eventually, however, she agreed to become the Prince's mistress. The newspapers followed the relationship with glee, publishing sometimes daily notes on its suspected progress.

"The writer has paid the highest compliments to the young lady in question, who could make a conquest in the heart of a young and illustrious personage, at the very moment when he is surrounded by all the beauties of the British Court, vying with each other to capture and ensnare him." (anonymous, Morning Post, July 22, 1780).

"A certain illustrious young personage is said to have promised that Mrs. R---'s establishment should immediately succeed his own; which, however, remaining still unsettled, though the former arrangement is made, has occasioned some severe reproaches on the part of the now suspicious Perdita. " (Morning Herald, January 4, 1781).

"Mrs. Arm----d has certainly been gratified at last in an amour with a certain young personage; and now flatters herself that her charms will not be so soon unrivetted, as were those of the once exalted and enviable Perdita." (Morning Herald, February 8, 1781).

Although the affair lasted less than a year, 'the Perdita' was notorious from then on; her gowns, her carriages, and her alliances became a constant source of discussion and speculation in the newspapers.

"Fortune has again smiled on Perdita; on Sunday she sported an entire new phaeton, drawn by four chestnut-coloured ponies, with a postillion and servant in blue and silver liveries. The lady dashed into town through Hyde Park turnpike at four o'clock, dressed in blue great coat prettily trimmed in silver; a plume of feathers graced her hat, which even Alexander the Great might have prided himself in." (Morning Herald, June 12, 1781).

The Prince's defection left Mary Robinson in a difficult position. Both the Robinsons were living on borrowed money, deeply in debt. She had ruined her reputation and given up a promising career as an actress, and received only promises in return. The Prince might have been expected to make some provision for his ex-mistress, but he did not. Her reputation already destroyed, Mary Robinson seems to have cared little about causing further scandal. She demanded £25,000 for the return of the prince's letters. She apparently settled for £5,000, paid by George III "to get my son out of this shameful scrape." It was enough to stave off her creditors. In 1782, Mary obtained a further £500 annuity for herself, and a £200 annuity during the life of Maria Elizabeth, in return for the surrender of the Prince's bond.

Lord Malden, the Prince's original emissary, was now Mary's most frequent companion, and her lover. Rumour also associated her with Charles James Fox, who negotiated the annuity settlement for her. So long as the men she associated with were attractive and attentive, she seemed willing to befriend them. (Thomas Robinson, though still alive, was uninvolved in her later life.)

Ban and Mary

In 1782, a poor army officer named Banastre Tarleton joined the Prince's circle. Tarleton had achieved considerable fame, but little financial reward, for his military service in the Americas. He had only a half-pay income of £173 per year to live on. Like the Robinsons, he was involved in an elegant but ruinous way of life which he could not support, gambling fortunes with the Prince, Lord Malden, and other cronies. Their bets were often absurd ones; they were as likely to race geese and turkeys as horses.

One night Lord Malden, Mary's 'protector', bet 1000 guineas that Mary would be true to him if Banastre Tarleton tried to seduce her. Several weeks later, Tarleton won both Mary's affections and the bet. Mary, when she learned what they had done, was furious with both men. Lord Malden, feeling himself betrayed when he had believed in her, rejected her. Tarleton seemed to care little for what happened. But after an accident in her phaeton, it was Banastre Tarleton who hurried to Mary's side - and she forgave him. Their seemingly unlikely relationship was to continue for the next 15 years. They were soon the talk of the town.

"Yesterday, a messenger arrived in town, with the very interesting and pleasing intelligence of the Tarleton, armed ship, having, after a chace of some months, captured the Perdita frigate, and brought her safe into Egham port. The Perdita is a prodigious fine clean bottomed vessel, and had taken many prizes during her cruize, particularly the Florizel, a most valuable ship belonging to the Crown, but which was immediately released, after taking out the cargo. The Perdita was captured some time ago by the Fox, but was, afterwards, retaken by the Malden, and had a sumptuous suit of new rigging, when she fell in with the Tarleton. Her manoeuvering to escape was admirable; but the Tarleton, fully determined to take her, or perish, would not give up the chace; and at length, coming alongside the Perdita, fully determined to board her, sword in hand, she instantly surrendered at discretion. " (Morning Post, September 21, 1782).

Tarleton's family viewed both extensive gambling and the notorious Perdita as dangers attendant upon London society. They offered to pay Banastre's most pressing debts of honour (more than they could readily afford) on the condition that he leave for the Continent - alone. Faced with social ruin otherwise, Tarleton set out for France on July 24, 1783. Mary desperately borrowed money for his debts, in hopes that he would stay in England, and set out in a post-chaise for Dover to intercept him. She was pregnant, and the rough travel caused a miscarriage. Mary suffered further injuries as a result of the incompetence of the midwife who attended her. Her legs became partially paralyzed, and she was affected by increasing paralysis and acutely painful rheumatism for the rest of her life. Tarleton, in France, was distracted at the news of her illness.

Colonel Tarleton.
Mezzotint by John Raphael Smith, after Sir. Joshua Reynolds.

As she recovered, Mary Robinson visited baths and spas on the advice of her doctors, and found comfort in writing poems such as "Ode to Valour. Inscribed to Colonel Banastre Tarleton.". In France, Banastre Tarleton decided to write a history of the military campaigns of 1780 and 1781, in which he had been involved. The possibility of an election in the spring of 1784, brought Tarleton back to England to campaign in Liverpool. He moved in with Mary Robinson, and they plunged into the excitement of the campaign. However, Tarleton was not elected, and did not receive an appointment from those who were elected to power. Creditors began to gather once again: Mary's possessions were seized and auctioned off. She saved only the diamond-studded portrait of the Prince of Wales. When the Duc de Lauzun offered his hospitality in the fall of 1784, Ban and Mary quietly left for France.

Tarleton and Robinson spent the next few years living intermittently in France and in Germany. They worked together composing and revising Tarleton's History of the Campaigns of 1780 and 1781 (1787). Mary verified and augmented Banastre's memories of the campaigns, using letters, dispatches, and newspaper accounts. In 1787, Tarleton returned to London for the book's publication. It gained him some prestige, but little income. Fortunes were changing hands in gambling hells, so he and a partner opened a faro-bank in hopes of making theirs. Mary continued to write poetry, and was reportedly working on an opera. By the fall of 1787, her health had improved enough that she considered returning to England. Ban Tarleton went to Aix-la-Chapelle to meet her, and in 1788, Mary Robinson returned to England, settling at 42 Clarges Street. Tarleton lived just down the street, at number 30.

Though they experienced several breakups and reconciliations, which prompted Mary Robinson to write poems such as "Lines to Him Who Will Understand Them.", and the sonnet sequence Sappho and Phaeon , Mary Robinson's relationship with Tarleton continued until 1798. During that time, Banastre Tarleton pursued his interests in politics. He became a member of Parliament, and was promoted to Colonel and later General. During the same time, Mary Robinson wrote prolifically. Her poetry and fiction achieved considerable acclaim. (Her attempts at writing for the theatre were less successful.)

The Authoress

On her return to England in 1788, Mary Robinson became involved in the florid Della Cruscan movement. She contributed poems to The World and The Oracle under the pseudonyms "Laura" and "Laura Maria". (See "Ode to Della Crusca."). Their authorship sparked considerable curiousity, and in time, she became confident enough to claim them publicly under her own name.

A collection entitled Poems by Mary Robinson was published on May 12, 1791. The book was handsomely produced in a leather binding, with gold details. The subscription list of 600 people was headed by His Royal Highness, George, Prince of Wales, and included many other members of the nobility. Some people subscribed because of her writing, some because of her notoriety, and some perhaps out of pity for the former actress, now crippled and ill. Reviews were generally kind, and noted traces in her poems of a sensibility that would later be termed Romanticism.

Her later poetical works included a second volume of Poems (1794); a sonnet sequence, Sappho and Phaeon (1796); and finally Lyrical Tales (1800). Mary Robinson frequently contributed poetry to the Morning Post, and eventually edited their poetry page. This increased her contact with the other poets and their work.

Over time, Robinson rejected her early Della Cruscan style, and strove for less florid, more elegant verse. In poems such as "All Alone", she reacted to the work of Southey and Wordsworth. She experimented with a variety of forms, including blank verse, of which "The Widow's Home" is a distinctive example. Her later work in particular shows considerable expertise, and a sensitivity to sound and metre (c.f. "The Haunted Beach"). Her mature work excited the admiration of Coleridge, who showed her parts of his as-yet unpublished "Kubla Khan".

Many of Robinson's poems have a tone of sadness and alienation. Some later works communicate an awareness of systemic abuses of power (e.g. imperial racism in "The Lascar"). To publish her more assertive, overtly sexual, and comedic verses (e.g. "Mistress Gurton's Cat. A Domestic Tale."), Mary Robinson tended to publish under pseudonyms such as 'Tabitha Bramble' (a feisty spinster), 'Oberon' (a male voice), and 'Bridget'.

More lucrative than Mary Robinson's poetry, was her prose. The money helped to support herself, her mother and daughter, and often Banastre Tarleton. Novels such as Vancenza (1792), The Widow (1794), Angelina (1796), and Walsingham (1797) went through multiple editions and were often translated into French and German. They owed part of their popularity to their suspected autobiographical elements. Even when her characters were placed in scenes of gothic horror, their views could be related to the experiences of their author.

A Winter's Tale

Her later novels were more poorly written than her early work, and less successful. In both The False Friend (1799) and The Natural Daughter (1799) she responded to the defection of Banastre Tarleton. The death of his mother in 1797 catalyzed him to end his 15-year relationship with Mary. Within a year, he met and married a young heiress, Susan Priscilla Bertie. Mary Robinson revenged herself as best she could by writing a savage characterization of Tarleton in The False Friend. The Natural Daughter was an attempt to remind readers of an old scandal concerning Tarleton's young wife: Susan Bertie was an illegitimate child of the Duke of Ancaster. She had been recognized by him in his will, and his family had adopted and raised her after his early death.

In her final writings, Mary Robinson sought to describe and justify her life. She expressed her disillusionment with marriage in a work of social criticism, entitled A Letter to the Women of England, on the Injustice of Mental Subordination (1799). First published under the name of Anne Frances Randall, it reflected the thinking of her friends Mary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin. Mary argued for the choice of a wife to leave her husband, as she had done years before.

Mary Robinson also began to write her autobiography. However, her health became increasingly poor, and she died on December 26, 1800, leaving it unfinished. Her daughter Maria Elizabeth edited and published her memoirs (Memoirs of the Late Mrs. Robinson, Written by Herself, With Some Posthumous Pieces, 1801) and a collected edition of her Poetical Works (1806).

Though Mary Robinson's reputation may have helped to sell her writing during her lifetime, it seriously limited her popularity after her death. From the Regency to the Victorian age, increasing strict attitudes led to a rejection of the literary work of such a notorious woman. Currently, increasing awareness of women writers is leading to the examination and re-evaluation of her work, particularly her later poetry. As well, her autobiography continues to be of interest as a historical record of her life and the times in which she lived.

Bibliography:

• Poetry
  • Poems by Mrs. Robinson, 1775.
  • Captivity; a Poem. And Celadon and Lydia; a Tale., 1777.
  • Poems, Volume I., 1791.
  • Poems, Volume II., 1794.
  • Modern Manners by "Horace Juvenal". London: Evans, 1793.
  • Sight, The Cavern of Woe, and Solitude. London: Evans and Becket, 1793.
  • Audley Fortescue London: William Lane, 1795.
  • The Sicilian Lover, London: Hookham and Carpenter, 1796.
  • Sappho and Phaeon. In a Series of Legitimate Sonnets. London: privately printed, 1796. (illustrated HTML at Virginia.)
  • Lyrical Tales. London: Longman, 1800.
  • The Poetical Works of the Late Mrs. Mary Robinson, London: Phillips, 1806.
  • Complete Poetry. Providence, R.I.: Brown University/National Endowment for the Humanities Women Writers Project, 1990.
• Plays
  • The Lucky Escape, 1778.
• Fiction
  • Vancenza, or the Dangers of Credulity London: 1792.
  • The Widow, or a picture of modern times. London: Hookham and Carpenter, 1794.
  • Angelina. 1796.
  • Hubert de Sevrac , 1796.
  • Julie St. Laurence Leipzig: Nauck, 1797.
  • Walsingham; or, The Pupil of Nature. London: Longman, 1797.
  • The False Friend: A Domestic Story London: T. N. Longman and O. Rees, 1799.
  • The Natural Daughter London: T. N. Longman and O. Rees, 1799.
• Non-Fiction
  • Impartial Reflections on the Situation of the Queen of France, 1791 [pamphlet].
  • A Letter to the Women of England, on the Injustice of Mental Subordination, 1799. [later retitled Thoughts on the Injustice of Mental Subordination]
• Biography
  • Memoirs of the Late Mrs. Robinson, Written by Herself. Edited by her daughter, Maria Elizabeth Robinson. London: Phillips, 1801.
  • The Memoirs of Mary Robinson by Mary Darby Robinson & Mary Elizabeth Robinson, with an introduction and notes by J. Fitzgerald Molloy. London: Gibbings and Company, Ld., 1895.
  • The Green Dragoon: The Lives of Banastre Tarleton and Mary Robinson by Robert D. Bass. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1957.

Additional Selections:

• "January 1795"
• "London's Summer Morning"
• "The Birth-day"
• "Sonnet: To Liberty"
• "The Savage of Aveyron"
• "The Camp"
• "All Alone"
• "The Poor Singing Dame"
• "Mistress Gurton's Cat. A Domestic Tale"
• "The Lascar"
• "The Widow's Home"
• "The Haunted Beach"
• "To the Memory of My Lamented Father"
• "Stanzas Written Between Dover and Calais"
• "Ode to Spring"

January 1795

Pavement slippery, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a garret starving.

Lofty mansions, warm and spacious;
Courtiers cringing and voracious;
Misers scarce and wretched heeding;
Gallant soldiers fightin, bleeding.

Wives who laugh at passive spouses;
Theatres, and meeting-houses;
Balls, where simpering misses languish;
Hospitals, and groans of anguish.

Arts and sciences bewailing:
Commerce drooping, credit failing:
Placemen mocking subjects loyal;
Separations, weddings royal.

Authors who can't earn a dinner;
Many a subtle rogue a winner;
Fugitives for shelter seeking;
Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.

Taste and talents quite deserted;
All the laws of truth perverted;
Arrogance o'er merit soaring;
Merit silently deploring.

Ladies gambling night and morning;
Fools the works of genius scorning;
Ancient dames for girls mistaken;
Youthful damsels quite forsaken.

Some in luxury delighting;
More in talking than in fighting;
Lovers old, and beaux decrepid;
Lordlings empty and insipid.

Poets, painters, and musicians;
Lawyers doctors, politicians;
Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes
Seeking fame by different roads.

Gallant souls with empty purses;
Generals only fit for nurses;
School-boys, smit with martial spirit,
Taking place of veteran merit.

Honest men who can't get places,
Knaves who show unblushing faces:
Ruin hasten'd, peace retarded;
Candour spurn'd, and art rewarded.

London's Summer Morning

Who has not waked to list the busy sounds
Of summer's morning, in the sultry smoke
Of noisy London? On the pavement hot
The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face
And tatter'd covering, shrilly bawls his trade,
Rousing the sleepy housemaid. At the door
The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell
Proclaims the dustman's office; while the street
Is lost in clouds impervious. Now begins
The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts;
While tinmen's shops, and noisy trunk-makers,
Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters,
Fruit barrows, and the hunger-giving cries
Of vegetable venders, fill the air.
Now every shop displays its varied trade,
And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet
Of early walkers. At the private door
The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop,
Annoying the smart 'prentice, or neat girl,
Tripping with band-box lightly. Now the sun
Darts burning splendour on the glittering pane,
Save where the canvas awning throws a shade
On the day merchandize. Now, spruce and trim,
In shops (where beauty smiles with industry),
Sits the smart damsel; while the passenger
Peeps through the window, watching every charm.
Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute
Of humming insects, while the limy snare
Waits to enthral them. Now the lamp-lighter
Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly venturous,
To trim the half-fill'd lamp; while at his feet
The pot-boy yells discordant! All along
The sultry pavement, the old-clothes man cries
In tone monotonous, the side-long views
The area for his traffic: now the bag
Is slily open'd, and the half-worn suit
(Sometimes the pilfer'd treasure of the base
Domestic spoiler), for one half its worth,
Sinks in the green abyss. The porter now
Bears his huge load along the burning way;
And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams,
To paint the summer morning.

The Birth-day

Here bounds the gaudy gilded chair,
   Bedeck'd with fringe, and tassels gay;
The melancholy mourner there
   Pursues her sad and painful way.

Here, guarded by a motley train,
   The pamper'd countess glares along;
There, wrung by poverty and pain,
   Pale Misery mingles with the throng.

Here, as the blazon'd chariot rolls,
   And prancing horses scare the crowd,
Great names, adorning little souls,
   Announce the empty vain and proud.

Here four tall lackeys slow precede
   A painted dame in rich array;
There the sad shivering child of need
   Steals barefoot o'er the flinty way.

"Room, room! stand back!" they loudly cry.
   The wretched poor are driven around
On every side, they scatter'd fly,
   And shrink before the threatening sound.

Here amidst jewels, feathers, flowers,
   The senseless duchess sits demure:
Heedless of all the anguish'd hours
   The sons of modest worth endure.

All silver'd, and embroider'd o er,
   She neither knows nor pities pain;
The beggar freezing at her door
   She overlooks with nice disdain.

The wretch whom poverty subdues
   Scarce dares to raise his tearful eye;
Or if by chance the throng he views;
   His loudest murmur is a sigh!

The poor wan mother, at whose breast
   The pining infant craves relief,
In one thin tatter'd garment drest,
   Creeps forth to pour the plaint of grief.

But ah! how little heeded here
   The faultering tongue reveals its wo;
For high-born fools, with frown austere,
   Contemn the pangs they never know.

"Take physic, Pomp!" let Reason say,
   "What can avail thy trappings rare?
The tomb shall close thy glittering day,
   The beggar prove thy equal there!"

Sonnet: To Liberty

Oh! Liberty! transcendant and sublime!
  Born on the mountain's solitary crest;
Nature thy nurse, thy fire unconquered Time,
   Truth, the pure inmate of thy glowing breast!
Oft dost thou wander by the billowy deep,
   Scattering the sands that bind the level shore,
Or, towering, brave the desolating roar
   That bids the tyrant tempest lash the steep!
'Tis thine, when sanguinary daemons lour,
   Amidst the thickening hosts to force they way;
To quell the minions of oppressive power,
   And shame the vaunting nothings of a day!
Still shall the human mind thy name adore,
   Till chaos reigns—and worlds shall be no more!
(1796)

The Savage of Aveyron

   'Twas in the mazes of a wood,
The lonely wood of Aveyron.
I heard a melancholy tone:—
   lt seem'd to freeze my blood!
A torrent near was flowing fast,
And hollow was the midnight blast
As o'er the leafless woods it past,
   While terror-fraught I stood!
O! mazy woods of Aveyron!
   O! wilds of dreary solitude!
   Amid thy thorny alleys rude
I thought myself alone!
   I thought no living thing could be
   So weary of the world as me,—
While on my winding path the pale moon shone.

   Sometimes the tone was loud and sad,
And sometimes dulcet, faint, and slow:
And then a tone of frantic wo:
   It almost made me mad.
The burthen was "Alone! alone!"
And then the heart did feebly groan:—
Then suddenly a cheerful tone
   Proclaimed a spirit glad!
O! mazy woods of Aveyron!
   O! wilds of dreary solitude!
   Amid your thorny alleys rude
I wish'd myself—a traveller alone.

   "Alone!" I heard the wild boy say,—
And swift he climb'd a blasted oak;
And there, while morning's herald woke,
   He watch'd the opening day.
Yet dark and sunken was his eye,
Like a lorn maniac's, wild and shy,
And scowling like a winter sky,
   Without one beaming ray!
Then, mazy woods of Aveyron!
   Then, wilds of dreary solitude!
   Amid thy thorny alleys rude
I sigh'd to be—a traveller alone.

   "Alone, alone'" I heard him shriek,
'Twas like the shriek of dying man!
And then to mutter he began,—
   But, O! he could not speak!
I saw him point to heaven, and sigh,
The big drop trembled in his eye;
And slowly from the yellow sky,
   I saw the pale morn break.
I saw the woods of Aveyron,
   Their wilds of dreary solitude:
   I mark'd their thorny alleys rude,
And wish'd to be—a traveller alone!

   His hair was long and black, and he
From infancy alone had been:
   For since his fifth year he had seen,
None mark'd his destiny!
No mortal ear had heard his groan,
For him no beam of hope had shone:
While sad he sigh'd—"alone, alone!"
   Beneath the blasted tree.
And then. O! woods of Aveyron,
   O! wilds of dreary solitude,
   Amid your thorny alleys rude
I thought myself a traveller—alone.

   And now upon the blasted tree
He carved three notches, broad and long,
And all the while he sang a song—
   Of nature's melody!
And though of words he nothing knew,
And though his dulcet tones were few,
Across the yielding bark he drew,
   Deep sighing, notches three.
O! mazy woods of Aveyron,
   O! wilds of dreary solitude,
   Amid your thorny alleys rude
Upon this blasted oak no sun beam shone!

   And now he pointed one, two, three;
Again he shriek'd with wild dismay;
And now he paced the thorny way,
   Quitting the blasted tree.
It was a dark December morn,
The dew was frozen on the thorn:
But to a wretch so sad, so lorn,
   All days alike wou'd be!
Yet, mazy woods of Aveyron,
   Yet, wilds of dreary solitude,
   Amid your frosty alleys rude
I wish'd to be—a traveller alone.

   He follow'd me along the wood
To a small grot his hands had made,
Deep in a black rock's sullen shade,
   Beside a tumbling flood.
Upon the earth I saw him spread
Of wither'd leaves a narrow bed,
Yellow as gold, and streak'd with red,
   They look'd like streaks of blood!
Pull'd from the woods of Aveyron,
   And scatter'd o'er the solitude
   By midnight whirlwinds strong and rude,
To pillow the scorch'd brain that throbb'd alone.

   Wild berries were his winter food,
With them his sallow lip was dyed;
On chesnuts wild he fed beside,
   Steep'd in the foamy flood.
Chequer'd with scars his breast was seen,
Wounds streaming fresh with anguish keen,
And marks where other wounds had been
   Torn by the brambles rude.
Such was the boy of Aveyron,
   The tenant of that solitude,
   Where still, by misery unsubdued,
He wander'd nine long winters, all alone.

   Before the step of his rude throne,
The squirrel sported, tame and gay;
The dormouse slept its life away,
   Nor heard his midnight groan.
About his form a garb he wore,
Ragged it was, and mark'd with gore,
And yet, where'er 'twas folded o'er,
   Full many a spangle shone!
Like little stars, O! Aveyron,
   They gleam'd amid thy solitude;
   Or like, along thy alleys rude,
The summer dew-drops sparkling in the sun.

   It once had been a lady's vest,
White as the whitest mountain's snow,
Till ruffian hands had taught to flow
   The fountain of her breast!
Remembrance bade the wild boy trace
Her beauteous form, her angel face,
Her eye that beam'd with heavenly grace,
   Her fainting voice that blest,—
When in the woods of Aveyron,
   Deep in their deepest solitude,
   Three barbarous ruffians shed her blood,
And mock'd, with cruel taunts, her dying groan.

   Remembrance traced the summer bright,
When all the trees were fresh and green,
   When lost, the alleys long between,
The lady pass'd the night:
She pass'd the night, bewilder'd wild,
She pass'd it with her fearless child,
Who raised his little arms and smiled
To see the morning light.
While in the woods of Aveyron,
   Beneath the broad oak's canopy.
   She mark'd aghast the ruffians three,
Waiting to seize the traveller alone!

   Beneath the broad oak's canopy
The lovely lady's bones were laid;
But since that hour no breeze has play d
   About the blasted treel
The leaves all wither'd ere the sun
His next day's rapid course had run,
And ere the summer day was done
   It winter seem'd to be:
And still, Oh! woods of Aveyron,
   Amid thy dreary solitude
   The oak a sapless trunk has stood,
To mark the spot where murder foul was done.

   From her the wild boy learn'd "alone,"
She tried to say, my babe will die!
But angels caught her parting sigh,
   The babe her dying tone.
And from that hour the boy has been
Lord of the solitary scene,
Wandering the dreary shades between,
   Making his dismal moan!
Till, mazy woods of Aveyron,
   Dark wilds of dreary solitude,
   Amid your thorny alleys rude
I thought myself alone.
   And could a wretch more wretched be,
   More wild, or fancy-fraught than he,
Whose melancholy tale would pierce a heart of stone.

THE CAMP

Tents, marquees, and baggage-waggons;
Suttling-houses, beer in flagons;
Drums and trumpets, singing, firing;
Girls seducing, beaux admiring;
Country lasses gay and smiling,
City lads their hearts beguiling;
Dusty roads, and horses frisky,
Many an Eton Boy in whisky;
Tax'd carts full of farmers' daughters;
Brutes condemn'd, and man who slaughters!
Public-houses, booths, and castles,
Belles of fashion, serving vassals;
Lordly gen'rals fiercely staring,
Weary soldiers, sighing, swearing!
Petit-maitres always dressing,
In the glass themselves caressing;
Perfum'd, painted, patch'd, and blooming
Ladies—manly airs assuming!
Dowagers of fifty, simp'ring,
Misses for their lovers whimp'ring;
Husbands drilled to household tameness;
Dames heart sick of wedded sameness.
Princes setting girls a-madding,
Wives for ever fond of gadding;
Princesses with lovely faces,
Beauteous children of the Graces!
Britain's pride and virtue's treasure,
Fair and gracious beyond measure!
Aid-de-camps and youthful pages,
Prudes and vestals of all ages!
Old coquets and matrons surly,
Sounds of distant hurly-burly!
Mingled voices, uncouth singing,
Carts full laden, forage bringing;
Sociables and horses weary,
Houses warm, and dresses airy;
Loads of fatten'd poultry; pleasure
Serv'd (to nobles) without measure;
Doxies, who the waggons follow;
Beer, for thirsty hinds to swallow;
Washerwomen, fruit-girls cheerful,
Ancient ladies—chaste and fearful!!
Tradesmen, leaving shops, and seeming
More of war than profit dreaming;
Martial sounds and braying asses,
Noise, that ev'ry noise surpasses!
All confusion, din, and riot,
Nothing clean—and nothing quiet.

From: Robinson, Mary, Lyrical Tales. London: Longman, 1800.

All Alone

Ah! wherefore by the church-yard side,
   Poor little lorn one. dost thou stray?
Thy wavy locks but thinly hide
   The tears that dim thy blue-eye's ray;
And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,
And weep, that thou art left alone?

Thou art not left alone, poor boy,
   The traveller stops to hear thy tale;
No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!
   For though thy mother's cheek is pale,
And withers under yon grave stone,
Thou art not, urchin, left alone.

I know thee well! thy yellow hair
   In silky waves I oft have seen:
Thy dimpled face so fresh and fair,
   Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien,
Were all to me, poor orphan, known,
Ere Fate had left thee—all alone!

Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,
   Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale!
Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn,
   And bare thy bosom meets the gale;
And oft I hear thee deeply groan,
That thou, poor boy, art left alone.

Thy naked feet are wounded sore
   With thorns, that cross thy daily road;
The winter winds around thee roar,
   The church-yard is thy bleak abode;
Thy pillow now a cold grave stone—
And there thou lov'st to grieve—alone!

The rain has drench'd thee, all night long;
   The nipping frost thy bosom froze;
And still, the yew-tree shades among,
   I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;
I heard thee, till the day-star shone
In darkness weep—and weep alone!

Oft have I seen thee, little boy,
   Upon thy lovely mother's knee;
For when she lived, thou wert her joy,
   Though now a mourner thou must be!
For she lies low, where yon grave stone
Proclaims that thou art left alone.

Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill
   The village bells are ringing, gay;
The merry reed, and brawling rill
   Call thee to rustic sports away.
Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan,
A truant from the throng—alone?

"I cannot the green hill ascend,
   I cannot pace the upland mead;
I cannot in the vale attend
   To hear the merry-sounding reed:
For all is still beneath yon stone,
Where my poor mother's left alone!

"I cannot gather gaudy flowers
   To dress the scene of revels loud—
I cannot pass the evening hours
   Among the noisy village crowd;
For all in darkness, and alone
My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.

"See how the stars begin to gleam,
   The sheep-dog barks—'tis time to go;
The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam
   Peeps through the yew-trees' shadowy row:
It falls upon the white grave-stone,
Where my dear mother sleeps alone.

"O stay me not, for I must go,
   The upland path in haste to tread;
For there the pale primroses grow,
   They grow to dress my mother's bed.
They must ere peep of day, be strown,
Where she lies mouldering all alone.

"My father o'er the stormy sea
   To distant lands was borne away,
And still my mother stay'd with me,
   And wept by night and toil'd by day.
And shall I ever quit the stone
Where she is left to sleep alone.

"My father died, and still I found
   My mother fond and kind to me;
I felt her breast with rapture bound
   When first I prattled on her knee—
And then she blest my infant tone,
And little thought of yon grave-stone.

"No more her gentle voice I hear,
   No more her smile of fondness see;
Then wonder not I shed the tear,
   She would have died to follow me!
And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone,
And I still live—to weep alone.

"Thy playful kid, she loved so well,
   From yon high clift was seen to fall;
I heard afar his tinkling bell,
   Which seem'd in vain for aid to call—
I heard the harmless sufferer moan,
And grieved that he was left alone.

"Our faithful dog grew mad, and died,
   The lightning smote our cottage low—
We had no resting-place beside,
   And knew not whither we should go:
For we were poor—and hearts of stone
Will never throb at misery's groan.

"My mother still survived for me,
   She led me to the mountain's brow,
She watch'd me, while at yonder tree
   I sat, and wove the ozier bough;
And oft she cried, "fear not, mine own!
Thou shalt not, boy, be left alone."

"The blast blew strong, the torrent rose
   And bore our shatter'd cot away:
And where the clear brook swiftly flows,
   Upon the turf, at dawn of day,
When bright the sun's full lustre shone,
I wander'd, friendless—and alone!"

Thou art not, boy, for I have seen
   Thy tiny footsteps print the dew,
And while the morning sky serene
   Spread o'er the hill a yellow hue,
I heard thy sad and plaintive moan,
Beside the cold sepulchral stone.

And when the summer noontide hours
   With scorching rays the landscape spread,
I mark'd thee, weaving fragrant flowers
   To deck thy mother's silent bed!
Nor at the church-yard's simple stone
Wert thou, poor Urchin, left alone.

I follow'd thee along the dale,
   And up the woodland's shad'wy way:
I heard thee tell thy mournful tale
   As slowly sunk the star of day:
Nor when its twinkling light had flown
Wert thou a wanderer all alone.

"O! yes, I was! and still shall be
   A wanderer, mourning and forlorn;
For what is all the world to me—
   What are the dews and buds of morn?
Since she who left me sad, alone
In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone!

''No brother's tear shall fall for me,
   For I no brother ever knew;
No friend shall weep my destiny,
   For friends are scarce, and tears are few;
None do I see, save on this stone,
Where I will stay and weep alone.

"My father never will return,
   He rests beneath the sea-green wave
I have no kindred left to mourn
   When I am hid in yonder grave:
Not one to dress with flowers the stone!
Then—surely, I am left alone!"

Ah! wherefore by the church-yard side,
   Poor little lorn one. dost thou stray?
Thy wavy locks but thinly hide
   The tears that dim thy blue-eye's ray;
And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,
And weep, that thou art left alone?

Thou art not left alone, poor boy,
   The traveller stops to hear thy tale;
No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!
   For though thy mother's cheek is pale,
And withers under yon grave stone,
Thou art not, urchin, left alone.

I know thee well! thy yellow hair
   In silky waves I oft have seen:
Thy dimpled face so fresh and fair,
   Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien,
Were all to me, poor orphan, known,
Ere Fate had left thee—all alone!

Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,
   Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale!
Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn,
   And bare thy bosom meets the gale;
And oft I hear thee deeply groan,
That thou, poor boy, art left alone.

Thy naked feet are wounded sore
   With thorns, that cross thy daily road;
The winter winds around thee roar,
   The church-yard is thy bleak abode;
Thy pillow now a cold grave stone—
And there thou lov'st to grieve—alone!

The rain has drench'd thee, all night long;
   The nipping frost thy bosom froze;
And still, the yew-tree shades among,
   I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;
I heard thee, till the day-star shone
In darkness weep—and weep alone!

Oft have I seen thee, little boy,
   Upon thy lovely mother's knee;
For when she lived, thou wert her joy,
   Though now a mourner thou must be!
For she lies low, where yon grave stone
Proclaims that thou art left alone.

Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill
   The village bells are ringing, gay;
The merry reed, and brawling rill
   Call thee to rustic sports away.
Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan,
A truant from the throng—alone?

"I cannot the green hill ascend,
   I cannot pace the upland mead;
I cannot in the vale attend
   To hear the merry-sounding reed:
For all is still beneath yon stone,
Where my poor mother's left alone!

"I cannot gather gaudy flowers
   To dress the scene of revels loud—
I cannot pass the evening hours
   Among the noisy village crowd;
For all in darkness, and alone
My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.

"See how the stars begin to gleam,
   The sheep-dog barks—'tis time to go;
The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam
   Peeps through the yew-trees' shadowy row:
It falls upon the white grave-stone,
Where my dear mother sleeps alone.

"O stay me not, for I must go,
   The upland path in haste to tread;
For there the pale primroses grow,
   They grow to dress my mother's bed.
They must ere peep of day, be strown,
Where she lies mouldering all alone.

"My father o'er the stormy sea
   To distant lands was borne away,
And still my mother stay'd with me,
   And wept by night and toil'd by day.
And shall I ever quit the stone
Where she is left to sleep alone.

"My father died, and still I found
   My mother fond and kind to me;
I felt her breast with rapture bound
   When first I prattled on her knee—
And then she blest my infant tone,
And little thought of yon grave-stone.

"No more her gentle voice I hear,
   No more her smile of fondness see;
Then wonder not I shed the tear,
   She would have died to follow me!
And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone,
And I still live—to weep alone.

"Thy playful kid, she loved so well,
   From yon high clift was seen to fall;
I heard afar his tinkling bell,
   Which seem'd in vain for aid to call—
I heard the harmless sufferer moan,
And grieved that he was left alone.

"Our faithful dog grew mad, and died,
   The lightning smote our cottage low—
We had no resting-place beside,
   And knew not whither we should go:
For we were poor—and hearts of stone
Will never throb at misery's groan.

"My mother still survived for me,
   She led me to the mountain's brow,
She watch'd me, while at yonder tree
   I sat, and wove the ozier bough;
And oft she cried, "fear not, mine own!
Thou shalt not, boy, be left alone."

"The blast blew strong, the torrent rose
   And bore our shatter'd cot away:
And where the clear brook swiftly flows,
   Upon the turf, at dawn of day,
When bright the sun's full lustre shone,
I wander'd, friendless—and alone!"

Thou art not, boy, for I have seen
   Thy tiny footsteps print the dew,
And while the morning sky serene
   Spread o'er the hill a yellow hue,
I heard thy sad and plaintive moan,
Beside the cold sepulchral stone.

And when the summer noontide hours
   With scorching rays the landscape spread,
I mark'd thee, weaving fragrant flowers
   To deck thy mother's silent bed!
Nor at the church-yard's simple stone
Wert thou, poor Urchin, left alone.

I follow'd thee along the dale,
   And up the woodland's shad'wy way:
I heard thee tell thy mournful tale
   As slowly sunk the star of day:
Nor when its twinkling light had flown
Wert thou a wanderer all alone.

"O! yes, I was! and still shall be
   A wanderer, mourning and forlorn;
For what is all the world to me—
   What are the dews and buds of morn?
Since she who left me sad, alone
In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone!

''No brother's tear shall fall for me,
   For I no brother ever knew;
No friend shall weep my destiny,
   For friends are scarce, and tears are few;
None do I see, save on this stone,
Where I will stay and weep alone.

"My father never will return,
   He rests beneath the sea-green wave
I have no kindred left to mourn
   When I am hid in yonder grave:
Not one to dress with flowers the stone!
Then—surely, I am left alone!"

The Poor Singing Dame

Beneath an old wall, that went round an old castle,
   For many a year, with brown ivy o'erspread;
A neat little hovel, its lowly roof raising,
   Defied the wild winds that howl'd over its shed:
The turrets, that frown'd on the poor simple dwelling,
   Were rock'd to and fro, when the tempest would roar,
And the river, that down the rich valley was swelling,
   Flow'd swiftly beside the green step of its door.

The summer sun gilded the rushy roof slanting,
   The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound hedge,
And above, on the ramparts, the sweet birds were chanting,
   And wild buds thick dappled the clear river's edge,
When the castle's rich chambers were haunted and dreary,
   The poor little hovel was still and secure;
And no robber e'er enter'd, nor goblin nor fairy,
   For the splendours of pride had no charms to allure.

The lord of the castle, a proud surly ruler,
   Oft heard the low dwelling with sweet music ring,
For the old dame that lived in the little hut cheerly,
   Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily sing:
When with revels the castle's great hall was resounding,
   The old dame was sleeping, not dreaming of fear;
And when over the mountains the huntsmen were bounding
   She would open her lattice, their clamours to hear.

To the merry-toned horn she would dance on the threshold,
   And louder, and louder repeat her old song:
And when winter its mantle of frost was displaying,
   She caroll'd, undaunted, the bare woods among:
She would gather dry fern, ever happy and singing,
   With her cake of brown bread, and her jug of brown beer,
And would smile when she heard the great castle-bell ringing,
   Inviting the proud to their prodigal cheer.

Thus she lived, ever patient and ever contented,
   Till envy the lord of the castle possess'd,
For he hated that poverty should be so cheerful,
   While care could the fav'rites of fortune molest;
He sent his bold yeomen with threats to prevent her,
   And still would she carol her sweet roundelay;
At last, an old steward relentless he sent her—
   Who bore her, all trembling, to prison away!

Three weeks did she languish, then died broken-hearted,
   Poor dame! how the death-bell did mournfully sound!
And along the green path six young bachelors bore her,
   And laid her for ever beneath the cold ground!
And the primroses pale 'mid the long grass were growing,
   The bright dews of twilight bespangled her grave,
And morn heard the breezes of summer soft blowing,
   To bid the fresh flowerets in sympathy wave.

The lord of the castle, from that fatal moment
   When poor singing Mary was laid in her grave,
Each night was surrounded by screech-owls appalling,
   Which o'er the black turrets their pinions would wave!
On the ramparts that frown'd on the river, swift flowing,
   They hover'd, still hooting a terrible song,
When his windows would rattle, the winter blast blowing,
   They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys among!

Wherever he wander'd they followed him crying;
   At dawnlight, at eve, still they haunted his way!
When the moon shone across the wide common they hooted,
   Nor quitted his path till the blazing of day.
His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying,
   And he hung his proud head, and he perish'd with shame;
And the tomb of rich marble, no soft tear displaying,
   O'ershadows the grave of the poor singing dame!

MISTRESS GURTON'S CAT: A DOMESTIC TALE.

Old Mistress Gurton had a cat,
   A tabby, loveliest of the race,
Sleek as a doe, and tame and fat,
   With velvet paws and whisker'd face;
The doves of Venus not so fair,
   Nor Juno's peacock half so grand
As Mistress Gurton's tabby Rose,
   The proudest of the purring band:—
So dignified in all her paces,
She seem'd a pupil of the Graces!
There never was a finer creature
In all the varying whims of Nature!

All liked Grimalkin, passing well!
Save Mistress Gurton—and, 'tis said,
She oft with furious ire would swell,
When, through neglect or hunger keen,
Puss with a pilfer'd scrap was seen
Purring beneath the pent-house shed:
For, like some favourites, she was bent
On all things, yet with none content;
And still, whate'er her place or diet,
She could not pick her bone in quiet.

Sometimes, new milk Grimalkin stole,
And sometimes—overset the bowl!
For over eagerness will prove
Oft times the bane of what we love;
And sometimes, to her neighbour's home
Grimalkin like a thief would roam,
Teaching poor cats of humbler kind,
For high example aways the mind!
Sometimes she paced the garden wall,
Thick guarded by the shatter'd pane,
And, lightly treading with disdain,
Fear'd not ambition's certain fall!
Old china broke, or scratch'd her dame,
And brought domestic friends to shame!
And many a time this cat was cursed,
Of squalling thieving things the worst!
Wish'd dead, and menaced with a string,
For cats of such scant fame deserved to swing!

One day Report, for every busy,
Resolved to make Dame Gurton easy;
A neighbour came, with solemn look,
And thus the dismal tidings broke.

"Know you that poor Grimalkin died
Last night, upon the pent-house side?
I heard her for assistance call;
I heard her shrill and dying squall!
I heard her, in reproachful tone,
Pour to the stars her feeble groan!
Alone I heard her piercing cries—
'With not a friend to close her eyes!'

"Poor puss! I vow it grieves me sore
Never to see thy beauties more!
Never again to hear thee purr,
To stroke thy back of zebra fur;
To see thy emerald eyes so bright,
Flashing around their lust'rous light
Amid the solemn shades of night!

"Methinks I see her pretty paws—
As gracefully she paced along;
I hear her voice, so shrill, among
The chimney rows! I see her claws,
While like a tyger she pursued
Undauntedly the pilfering race:
I see her lovely whisker'd face
When she her nimble prey subdued!
And then how she would frisk and play,
And purr the evening hours away:
Now stretch'd beside the social fire;
Now on the sunny lawn at noon,
Watching the vagrant birds that flew
Across the scene of varied hue,
To peck the fruit. Or when the moon
Stole o'er the hills in silvery suit,
How would she chant her lovelorn tale,
Soft as the wild Eolian Iyre!
Till every brute, on hill, in dale,
Listen'd with wonder mute!"

"O cease!" exclaim'd Dame Gurton straight,
"Has my poor puss been torn away?
Alas! how cruel is my fate,
How shall I pass the tedious day?
Where can her mourning mistress find
So sweet a cat? so meek, so kind!
So keen a mouser, such a beauty,
So orderly, so fond, so true,
That every gentle task of duty
The dear domestic creature knew!
Hers was the mildest tenderest heart!
She knew no little cattish art;
Not cross, like favourite cats, was she,
But seem'd the queen of cats to be!
I cannot live—since doom'd, alas! to part
From poor grimalkin kind, the darling of my heart!"

And now Dame Gurton, bathed in tears,
With a black top-knot vast appears:
Some say that a black gown she wore,
As many oft have done before,
For beings valued less, I ween,
Than this of tabby cats the favourite queen!
But, lo! soon after, one fair day,
Puss, who had only been a roving,
Across the pent-house took her way
To see her dame, so sad and loving;
Eager to greet the mourning fair,
She enter'd by a window, where
A china bowl of luscious cream
Was quivering in the sunny beam.

Puss, who was somewhat tired and dry
And somewhat fond of bev'rage sweet,
Beholding such a tempting treat,
Resolved its depth to try.
She saw the warm and dazzling ray
Upon the spotless surface play;
She purr'd around its circle wide,
And gazed, and long'd, and mew'd, and sigh'd!
But fate, unfriendly, did that hour control,
She overset the cream, and smash'd the gilded bowl!

As Mistress Gurton heard the thief,
   She started from her easy chair,
And, quite unmindful of her grief,
   Began aloud to swear!
"Curse that voracious beast!" she cried,
   "Here, Susan, bring a cord—
I'll hang the vicious, ugly creature—
The veriest plague e'er form'd by nature!"
   And Mistress Gurton kept her word—
And poor Grimalkin—died!

Thus often we with anguish sore
The dead in clamorous grief deplore;
Who, were they once alive again,
Would meet the sting of cold disdain!
For friends, whom trifling faults can sever,
Are valued most—when lost for ever!

The Lascar

PART FIRST.

"Another day, ah! me, a day
   Of dreary sorrow is begun!
And still I loath the temper'd ray,
   And still I hate the sickly sun!
Far from my native Indian shore,
I hear our wretched race deplore;
I mark the smile of taunting scorn,
And curse the hour when I was born!
I weep, but no one gently tries
To stop my tear, or check my sighs;
For while my heart beats mournfully,
Dear Indian home, I sigh for thee!

"Since, gaudy sun! I see no more
   Thy hottest glory gild the day;
Since, sever'd from my burning shore,
   I waste the vapid hours away;
O! darkness come! come deepest gloom;
Shroud the young summer's opening bloom!
Burn, temper'd orb, with fiercer beams
This northern world! and drink the streams
That through the fertile valleys glide
To bathe the feasted fiends of pride!
Or hence, broad sun! extinguish'd be!
For endless night encircles me!

"What is to me the city gay?
   And what the board profusely spread?
I have no home, no rich array,
   No spicy feast, no downy bed!
I with the dogs am doom'd to eat,
To perish in the peopled street,
To drink the tear of deep despair,
The scoff and scorn of fools to bear!
I sleep upon the pavement stone,
Or pace the meadows, wild—alone!
And if I curse my fate severe
Some christian savage mocks my tear!

"Shut out the sun, O! pitying night!
   Make the wide world my silent tomb!
O'ershade this northern, sickly light,
   And shroud me in eternal gloom!
My Indian plains now smiling glow,
There stands my parent's hovel low,
And there the towering aloes rise,
And fling their perfumes to the skies!
There the broad palm trees covert lend,
There sun and shade delicious blend;
But here, amid the blunted ray,
Cold shadows hourly cross my way.

"Was it for this, that on the main
   I met the tempest fierce and strong,
And steering o'er the liquid plain,
   Still onward, press'd the waves among?
Was it for this the Lascar brave
Toil'd like a wretched Indian slave;
Preserved your treasures by his toil,
And sigh'd to greet this fertile soil?
Was it for this, to beg, to die!
Where plenty smiles, and where the sky
Sheds cooling airs; while feverish pain
Maddens the famish'd Lascar's brain?

"Oft I the stately camel led,
   And sung the short-hour'd night away;
And oft, upon the top-mast's head,
   Hail'd the red eye of coming day.
The Tanyan's back my mother bore;
And oft the wavy Ganges roar
Lull'd her to rest, as on she pass'd,
'Mid the hot sands an burning blast!
And oft beneath the Banyan tree
She sate and fondly nourish'd me;
And while the noontide hour pass'd slow
I felt her breast with kindness glow.

"Where'er I turn my sleepless eyes
   No cheek so dark as mine I see,
For Europe's suns with softer dyes
   Mark Europe's favour'd progeny!
Low is my stature, black my hair,
The emblem of my soul's despair!
My voice no dulcet cadence flings,
To touch soft pity's throbbing strings;
Then wherefore, cruel Briton, say,
Compel my aching heart to stay?
To-morrow's sun may rise to see
The famish'd Lascar bless'd as thee!"

The morn had scarcely shed its rays,
   When from the city's din he ran;
For he had fasted four long days,
   And faint his pilgrimage began!
The Lascar now, without a friend,
Up the steep hill did slow ascend;
Now o'er the flowery meadows stole,
While pain and hunger pinch'd his soul;
And now his feverish lip was dried,
And burning tears his thirst supplied,
And ere he saw the evening close,
Far off, the city dimly rose.

Again the summer sun flamed high,
   The plains were golden far and wide;
And fervid was the cloudless sky,
   And slow the breezes seem'd to glide:
The gossamer, on briar and spray,
Shone silvery in the solar ray;
And sparkling dew-drops, falling round,
Spangled the hot and thirsty ground;
The insect myriads humm'd their tune
To greet the coming hour of noon,
While the poor Lascar boy, in haste,
Flew, frantic, o'er the sultry waste.

And whither could the wand'rer go?
   Who would receive a stranger poor?
Who, when the blasts of night should blow,
   Would ope to him the friendly door?
Alone, amid the race of man,
The sad, the fearful alien ran!
None would an Indian wand'rer bless;
None greet him with the fond caress;
None feed him, though with hunger keen
He at the lordly gate were seen
Prostrate, and humbly forced to crave
A shelter for an Indian slave.

The noon-tide sun, now flaming wide,
   No cloud its fierce beam shadow'd o'er,
But what could worse to him betide
   Than begging at the proud man's door?
For closed and lofty was the gate,
And there in all the pride of state,
A surly porter turn'd the key,
A man of sullen soul was he—
His brow was fair; but in his eye
Sat pamper'd scorn and tyranny;
And near him a fierce mastiff stood,
Eager to bathe his fangs in blood.

The weary Lascar turn'd away,
   For trembling fear his heart subdued,
And down his cheek the tear would stray,
   Though burning anguish drank his blood!
The angry mastiff snarl'd as he
Turn'd from the house of luxury;
The sultry hour was long, and high
The broad sun flamed athwart the sky—
But still a throbbing hope possess'd
The Indian wanderer's feverish breast,
When from the distant dell a sound
Of swelling music echoed round.

It was the church-bell's merry peal;
   And now a pleasant house he view'd:
And now his heart began to feel
   As though it were not quite subdued!
No lofty dome show'd loftier state,
No pamper'd porter watch'd the gate,
No mastiff like a tyrant stood,
Eager to scatter human blood;
Yet the poor Indian wanderer found,
E'en where Religion smiled around,
That tears had little power to speak
When trembling on a sable cheek!

With keen reproach, and menace rude,
   The Lascar boy away was sent;
And now again he seem'd subdued,
   And his soul sicken'd as he went.
Now on the river's bank he stood;
Now drank the cool refreshing flood;
Again his fainting heart beat high;
Again he rais'd his languid eye;
Then from the upland's sultry side
Look'd back, forgave the wretch, and sigh'd
While the proud pastor bent his way
To preach of charity—and pray!

PART SECOND.

The Lascar boy still journey'd on,
   For the hot sun he well could bear,
And now the burning hour was gone,
   And Evening came, with softer air.
The breezes kiss'd his sable breast,
While his scorch'd feet the cold dew press'd;
The waving flowers soft tears display'd,
And songs of rapture fill'd the glade;
The south wind quiver'd o'er the stream,
Reflecting back the rosy beam;
While as the purpling twilight closed,
On a turf bed—the boy reposed.

And now, in fancy's airy dream,
   The Lascar boy his mother spied;
And from her breast a crimson stream
   Slow trickled down her beating side:
And now he heard her, wild, complain,
As loud she shriek'd—but shriek'd in vain!
And now she sunk upon the ground,
The red stream trickling from her wound;
And near her feet a murderer stood,
His glittering poniard tipp'd with blood!
And now, "farewell, my son!" she cried,
Then closed her fainting eyes—and died!

The Indian wanderer, waking, gazed,
   With grief, and pain, and horror, wild;
And though his feverish brain was crazed,
   He raised his eyes to heaven and smiled:
And now the stars were twinkling clear,
And the blind bat was whirling near
And the lone owlet shriek'd, while he
Still sate beneath a sheltering tree;
And now the fierce-toned midnight blast
Across the wide heath howling pass'd,
When a long cavalcade he spied
By torch-light near the river's side.

He rose, and hastening swiftly on,
   Call'd loudly to the sumptuous train,
But soon the cavalcade was gone,
   And darkness wrapp'd the scene again.
He follow'd still the distant sound;
He saw the lightning flashing round;
He heard the crashing thunder roar;
He felt the whelming torrents pour;
And now, beneath a sheltering wood,
He listened to the tumbling flood—
And now, with faltering, feeble breath,
The famish'd Lascar pray'd for death.

And now the flood began to rise,
   And foaming rush'd along the vale;
The Lascar watch'd, with stedfast eyes,
   The flash descending quick and pale;
And now again the cavalcade
Pass'd slowly near the upland glade;
But he was dark, and dark the scene,
The torches long extinct had been;
He call'd, but in the stormy hour
His feeble voice had lost its power,
Till, near a tree, beside the flood,
A night-bewilder'd traveller stood.

The Lascar now with transport ran,
   "Stop! stop!" he cried, with accents bold;
The traveller was a fearful man,
   And next his life he prized his gold.
He heard the wanderer madly cry;
He heard his footsteps following nigh;
He nothing saw, while onward prest,
Black as the sky the Indian's breast,
Till his firm grasp he felt; while cold
Down his pale cheek the big drop roll'd;
Then, struggling to be free, he gave
A deep wound to the Lascar slave.

And now he groan'd, by pain oppress'd,
   And now crept onward, sad and slow:
And while he held his bleeding breast
   He feebly pour'd the plaint of wo:
"What have I done!" the Lascar cried,
"That Heaven to me the power denied
To touch the soul of man, and share
A brother's love, a brother's care?
Why is this dingy form decreed
To bear oppression's scourge and bleed?
Is there a God in yon dark heaven,
And shall such monsters be forgiven.

"Here, in this smiling land we find
   Neglect and misery sting our race;
And still, whate'er the Lascar's mind,
   The stamp of sorrow marks his face!"
He ceased to speak; while from his side
Fast roll'd life's sweetly-ebbing tide,
And now, though sick and faint was he,
He slowly climb'd a tall elm tree,
To watch if near his lonely way
Some friendly cottage lent a ray,
A little ray of cheerful light,
To gild the Lascar's long, long night!

And now he hears a distant bell,
   His heart is almost rent with joy
And who but such a wretch can tell
   The transports of the Indian boy?
And higher now he climbs the tree,
And hopes some sheltering cot to see;
Again he listens, while the peal
Seems up the woodland vale to steal;
The twinkling stars begin to fade,
And dawnlight purples o'er the glade;
And while the severing vapours flee
The Lascar boy looks cheerfully.

And now the sun begins to rise
   Above the eastern summit blue;
And o'er the plain the day-breeze flies,
   And sweetly bloom the fields of dew.
The wandering wretch was chill'd, for he
Sate shivering in the tall elm tree;
And he was faint, and sick, and dry,
And bloodshot was his feverish eye;
And livid was his lip, while he
Sate silent in the tall elm tree,
And parch'd his tongue, and quick his breath,
And his dark cheek was cold as death!

And now a cottage low he sees,
   The chimney smoke, ascending grey,
Floats lightly on the morning breeze
   And o'er the mountain glides away.
And now the lark, on fluttering wings,
Its early song, delighted, sings;
And now, across the upland mead,
The swains their flocks to shelter lead;
The sheltering woods wave to and fro;
The yellow plains far distant glow;
And all things wake to life and joy,
All! but the famish'd Indian boy!

And now the village throngs are seen,
   Each lane is peopled, and the glen
From every opening path-way green
   Sends forth the busy hum of men.
They cross the meads, still, all alone,
They hear the wounded Lascar groan!
Far off they mark the wretch, as he
Falls, senseless, from the tall elm tree!
Swiftly they cross the river wide,
And soon they reach the elm tree's side;
But ere the sufferer they behold,
His wither'd heart is dead—and cold!

The Widow's Home

Close on the margin of a brawling brook
That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a cot,
O'ershadow'd by broad alders. At its door
A rude seat, with an ozier canopy,
Invites the weary traveller to rest.
Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within
The sweets of joy domestic oft have made
The long hour not uncheerly, while the moor
Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast
Swept with impetuous wing the mountain's brow!
On every tree of the near sheltering wood
The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild,
Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling
Love-songs spontaneous, greets him merrily.
The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn,
And thinly scatter'd with blue mists that float
On their bleak summits dimly visible,
Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air
Breathes healthful fragrance. On the cottage roof
The gadding ivy, and the tawny vine
Bind the brown thatch, the shelter'd winter-hut
Of the tame sparrow, and the red-breast bold.

There dwells the soldier's widow! young and fair,
Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day
She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,—
And every hour anticipates the day
(Deceived, yet cherish'd, by the flatterer Hope)
When she shall meet her hero. On the eve
Of sabbath rest, she trims her little hut
With blossoms fresh and gaudy, still herself
The queen-flower of the garland! The sweet rose
Of wood-wild beauty, blushing through her tears.

One little son she has, a lusty boy,
The darling of her guiltless mourning heart,
The only dear and gay associate
Of her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheek
Is never blanch'd with fear, though he will climb
The broad oak's branches, and with brawny arm
Sever the limpid wave. In his blue eye
Beams all his mother's gentleness of soul;
While his brave father's warm intrepid heart
Throbs in his infant bosom. 'Tis a wight
Most valorous, yet pliant as the stem
Of the low vale-born lily, when the dew
Presses its perfumed head. Eight years his voice
Has cheer'd the homely hut, for he could lisp
Soft words of filial fondness, ere his feet
Could measure the smooth path-way.
        On the hills
He watches the wide waste of wavy green
Tissued with orient lustre, till his eyes
Ache with the dazzling splendour, and the main,
Rolling and blazing, seems a second sun!
And, if a distant whitening sail appears,
Skimming the bright horizon, while the mast
Is canopied with clouds of dappled gold,
He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old tree
Is his lone watch-tower; 'tis a blasted oak
Which from a vagrant acorn, ages past,
Sprang up to triumph like a savage bold,
Braving the season's warfare. There he sits
Silent and musing the lone evening hour,
'Till the short reign of sunny splendour fades
At the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings;
Or from his oaten pipe, untiring pours
The tune mellifluous which his father sung,
When he could only listen.
        On the sands
That bind the level sea-shore, will he stray,
When morn unlocks the east, and flings afar
The rosy day-beam! There the boy will stop
To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves
On the bleak strand, while winter o'er the main
Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again
He chants his father's ditty. Never more,
Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb
To the sweet cadence! never more thy tear
Fall as the dulcet breathings give each word
Expression magical! Thy father, boy,
Sleeps on the bed of death! His tongue is mute,
His fingers have forgot their pliant art,
His oaten pipe will ne'er again be heard
Echoing along the valley! Never more
Will thy fond mother meet the balmy smile
Of peace domestic, or the circling arm
Of valour, temper'd by the milder joys
Of rural merriment. His very name
ls now forgotten! for no trophied tomb
Tells of his bold exploits: such heraldry
Befits not humble worth; for pomp and praise
Wait in the gilded palaces of pride
To dress ambition's slaves. Yet, on his grave,
The unmark'd resting place of valour's sons,
The morning beam shines lust'rous; the meek flower
Still drops the twilight tear, and the night breeze
Moans melancholy music!
        Then, to me,
O! dearer far is the poor soldier's grave,
The widow's lone and unregarded cot,
The brawling brook, and the wide alder-bough,
The ozier canopy, and plumy choir,
Hymning the morn's return, than the rich dome
Of gilded palaces! and sweeter far—
O! far more graceful, far more exquisite,
The widow's tear bathing the living rose,
Than the rich ruby, blushing on the breast
Of guilty greatness. Welcome then to me—
The widow's lowly home: The soldier's heir;
The proud inheritor of Heaven's best gifts—
The mind unshackled, and the guiltless soul!

The Haunted Beach

Upon a lonely desart beach,
   Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head,
   Though lofty barks were shatter'd.
The sea-weeds gathering near the door,
   A sombre path display'd;
And, all around, the deafening roar
Re-echoed on the chalky shore,
   By the green billows made.

Above a jutting cliff was seen
   Where sea-birds hover'd craving;
And all around the craggs were bound
   With weeds—for ever waving.
And here and there, a cavern wide
   lts shadowy jaws display'd;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver'd mast was seen to ride
   Where the green billows stray'd.

And often, while the moaning wind
   Stole o'er the summer ocean,
The moonlight scene was all serene,
   The waters scarce in motion;
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
   The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,
The fisherman beheld a band
Of spectres gliding hand in hand—
   Where the green billows play'd.

And pale their faces were as snow,
   And sullenly they wander'd;
And to the skies with hollow eyes
   They look'd as though they ponder'd.
And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,
   They dismal howlings made,
And while the blast blew strong and loud,
The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd,
   Where the green billows play'd.

And then above the haunted hut
   The curlews screaming hover'd;
And the low door, with furious roar,
   The frothy breakers cover'd.
For in the fisherman's lone shed
   A murder'd man was laid,
With ten wide gashes in his head,
And deep was made his sandy bed
   Where the green billows play'd.

A shipwreck'd mariner was he,
   Doom'd from his home to sever
Who swore to be through wind and sea
   Firm and undaunted ever!
And when the wave resistless roll'd,
   About his arm he made
A packet rich of Spanish gold,
And, like a British sailor bold,
   Plung'd where the billows play'd.

The spectre band, his messmates brave,
   Sunk in the yawning ocean,
While to the mast he lash'd him fast,
   And braved the storm's commotion.
The winter moon upon the sand
   A silvery carpet made,
And mark'd the sailor reach the land,
And mark'd his murderer wash his hand
   Where the green billows play'd.

And since that hour the fisherman
   Has toil'd and toil'd in vain;
For all the night the moony light
   Gleams on the specter'd main!
And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,
   The murderer's liquid way
Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
   Where the green billows play.

Full thirty years his task has been,
   Day after day more weary;
For Heaven design'd his guilty mind
   Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
   He has not power to stray;
But destined misery to sustain,
He wastes, in solitude and pain,
   A loathsome life away.

From: The Memoirs of Mary Robinson by Mary Darby Robinson & Mary Elizabeth Robinson, with an introduction and notes by J. Fitzgerald Molloy. London: Gibbings and Company, Ld., 1895.

[Page 202] 

TO THE
MEMORY
OF
MY LAMENTED FATHER,
WHO DIED IN THE SERVICE OF THE EMPRESS OF RUSSIA,
DECEMBER 5, 1786

  Oh, sire, rever'd ! ador'd !
Was it the ruthless tongue of DEATH,
  That whisp'ring to my pensive ear,
    Pronounc'd the fatal word

[Page 203] 

  That bath'd my cheek with many a tear,
And stopp'd awhile my gasping breath ?
    ' He lives no more !
    Far on a foreign shore,
His honour'd dust a laurell'd grave receives,
While his immortal soul in realms celestial lives ! '

  Oh ! my lov'd sire, farewell !
Though we are doom'd on earth to meet no more,
Still mem'ry lives, and still I must adore !
And long this throbbing heart shall mourn,
Though thou to these sad eyes wilt ne'er return !
    Yet shall remembrance dwell
  On all thy sorrows through life's stormy sea,
When fate's resistless whirlwinds shed
Unnumber'd tempests round thy head,
  The varying ills of human destiny !

Yet, with a soul sublimely brave,
Didst thou endure the dashing wave;
Still buffeting the billows rude,
By all the shafts of woe, undaunted, unsubdued !
  Through a long life of rugged care,
'Twas thine to steer a steady course !
  'Twas thine misfortune's frowns to bear,
And stem the wayward torrent's force !
  And as thy persevering mind
The toilsome path of fame pursued,
  'Twas thine, amidst its flow'rs to find
The wily snake—Ingratitude !

[Page 204] 

  Yet vainly did th' insidious reptile strive
On thee its poisons dire to fling;
  Above its reach, thy laurel still shall thrive,
Unconscious of the treach'rous sting !

'Twas thine to toil through length'ning years,
Where low'ring night absorbs the spheres !
  O'er icy seas to bend thy way,
Where frozen Greenland rears its head,
  Where dusky vapours shroud the day,
And wastes of flaky snow the stagnate ocean spread
  'Twas thine amidst the smoke of war,
  To view, unmov'd, grim-fronted Death;
  Where Fate, enthron'd in sulphur'd car,
Shrunk the pale legions with her scorching breath !
  While all around her, bath'd in blood,
Iberia's haughty sons plung'd lifeless 'midst the flood.

  Now on the wings of meditation borne,
Let fond remembrance turn, and turn to mourn;
Slowly, and sad, her pinions sweep
O'er the rough bosom of the boist'rous deep
  To that disastrous, fatal coast
  Where, on the foaming billows tost,
Imperial Catherine's navies rode;
  And war's inviting banners wide
  Wav'd hostile o'er the glitt'ring tide,
That with exulting conquest glow'd !

  For there—oh sorrow, check the tear !—
  There, round departed valour's bier,

[Page 205] 

The sacred drops of kindred virtue 1 shone !
  Proud monuments of worth ! whose base
  Fame on her starry hill shall place;
  There to endure, admir'd, sublime !
  E'en when the mould'ring wing of time
Shall scatter to the winds huge pyramids of stone !
  Oh ! gallant soul ! farewell !
Though doom'd this transient orb to leave,
  Thy daughter's heart, whose grief no words can tell
Shall, in its throbbing centre, bid thee live !
  While from its crimson fount shall flow
The silent tear of ling'ring grief;
The gem sublime ! that scorns relief,
  Nor vaunting shines, with ostentatious woe !

Though thou art vanish'd from these eyes,
Still from thy sacred dust shall rise
  A wreath that mocks the polish'd grace
Of sculptured bust, or tuneful praise;
  While Fame shall weeping point the place
Where Valour's dauntless son decays !
Unseen to cherish mem'ry's source divine,
Oh ! parent of my life, shall still be mine !

  And thou shalt, from thy blissful state,
Awhile avert thy raptur'd gaze,
To own, that 'midst this wild'ring maze,
  The flame of filial love defies the blast of fate !

[Page 220] 

STANZAS
WRITTEN BETWEEN DOVER AND CALAIS,
JULY 20, 1792.

BOUNDING billow, cease thy motion,
Bear me not so swiftly o'er;
Cease thy roaring, foamy ocean,
I will tempt thy rage no more

[Page 221]

Ah ! within my bosom beating,
Varying passions wildly reign;
Love, with proud Resentment meeting,
Throbs by turns, of joy and pain.

Joy, that far from foes I wander,
Where their taunts can reach no more;
Pain, that woman's heart grows fonder
When her dream of bliss is o'er !

Love, by fickle fancy banish'd,
Spurn'd by hope, indignant flies;
Yet when love and hope are vanish'd,
Restless mem'ry never dies.

Far I go, where fate shall lead me,
Far across the troubled deep;
Where no stranger's ear shall heed me,
Where no eye for me shall weep.

Proud has been my fatal passion !
Proud my injured heart shall be !
While each thought, each inclination,
Still shall prove me worthy thee !

Not one sigh shall tell my story;
Not one tear my cheek shall stain;
Silent grief shall be my glory,—
Grief, that stoops not to complain !

Let the bosom prone to ranging,
Still by ranging seek a cure;
Mine disdains the thought of changing,
Proudly destin'd to endure.

[Page 222]

Yet, ere far from all I treasur'd,
— ere I bid adieu;
Ere my days of pain are measur'd,
Take the song that's still thy due !

Yet, believe, no servile passions
Seek to charm thy vagrant mind;
Well I know thy inclinations,
Wav'ring as the passing wind.

I have lov'd thee,—dearly lov'd thee,
Through an age of worldly woe;
How ungrateful I have prov'd thee
Let my mournful exile show !

Ten long years of anxious sorrow,
Hour by hour I counted o'er;
Looking forward, till to-morrow,
Every day I lov'd thee more !

Pow'r and splendour could not charm me;
I no joy in wealth could see !
Nor could threats or fears alarm me,
Save the fear of losing thee !

When the storms of fortune press'd thee,
I have wept to see thee weep !
When relentless cares distress'd thee,
I have lull'd those cares to sleep !

When with thee, what ills could harm me ?
Thou couldst every pang assuage;
But when absent, nought could charm me;
Every moment seem'd an age.

[Page 223]

Fare thee well, ungrateful rover !
Welcome Gallia's hostile shore:
Now the breezes waft me over;
Now we part—TO MEET NO MORE.

[Page 231]

ODE TO SPRING.

Life-glowing season ! odour-breathing Spring !
Deck'd in cerulean splendours !—vivid,—warm,
Shedding soft lustre on the rosy hours,
And calling forth their beauties ! balmy Spring !
To thee the vegetating world begins
To pay fresh homage. Ev'ry southern gale
Whispers thy coming;—every tepid show'r
Revivifies thy charms. The mountain breeze
Wafts the ethereal essence to the vale,
While the low vale returns its fragrant hoard
With tenfold sweetness. When the dawn unfolds
Its purple splendours 'mid the dappled clouds,
Thy influence cheers the soul. When noon uplifts
Its burning canopy, spreading the plain
Of heaven's own radiance with one vast of light,
Thou smil'st triumphant ! Ev'ry little flow'r
Seems to exult in thee, delicious Spring,
Luxuriant nurse of nature ! By the stream,
That winds its swift course down the mountain's side,
Thy progeny are seen;—young primroses,
And all the varying buds of wildest birth,
Dotting the green slope gaily. On the thorn,
Which arms the hedge-row, the young birds invite
With merry minstrelsy, shrilly and maz'd
With winding cadences; now quick, now sunk
In the low twittered song. The evening sky
Reddens the distant main; catching the sail,
Which slowly lessens, and with crimson hue

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Varying the sea-green wave; while the young moon,
Scarce visible amid the warmer tints
Of western splendours, slowly lifts her brow
Modest and icy-lustred ! O'er the plain
The light dews rise, sprinkling the thistle's head,
And hanging its clear drops on the wild waste
Of broomy fragrance. Season of delight !
Thou soul-expanding pow'r, whose wondrous glow
Can bid all nature smile ! Ah ! why to me
Come unregarded, undelighting still
This ever-mourning bosom ? So I've seen
The sweetest flow'rets bind the icy urn;
The brightest sunbeams glitter on the grave;
And the soft zephyr kiss the troubled main,
With whispered murmurs. Yes, to me, O Spring !
Thou com'st unwelcom'd by a smile of joy;
To me ! slow with'ring to that silent grave
Where all is blank and dreary ! Yet once more
The Spring eternal of the soul shall dawn,
Unvisited by clouds, by storms, by change,
Radiant and unexhausted ! Then, ye buds,
Ye plumy minstrels, and ye balmy gales,
Adorn your little hour, and give your joys
To bless the fond world-loving traveller,
Who, smiling, measures the long flow'ry path
That leads to death ! For to such wanderers
Life is a busy, pleasing, cheerful dream,
And the last hour unwelcome. Not to me,
O ! not to me, stern Death, art thou a foe;
Thou art the welcome messenger, which brings
A passport to a blest and long repose!