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Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Envy

 Deep in th' abyss where frantic horror bides, 
In thickest mists of vapours fell,
Where wily Serpents hissing glare
And the dark Demon of Revenge resides,
At midnight's murky hour
Thy origin began: 
Rapacious MALICE was thy sire;
Thy Dam the sullen witch, Despair;
Thy Nurse, insatiate Ire.
The FATES conspir'd their ills to twine, About thy heart's infected shrine; They gave thee each disastrous spell, Each desolating pow'r, To blast the fairest hopes of man.
Soon as thy fatal birth was known, From her unhallow'd throne With ghastly smile pale Hecate sprung; Thy hideous form the Sorc'ress press'd With kindred fondness to her breast; Her haggard eye Short forth a ray of transient joy, Whilst thro' th' infernal shades exulting clamours rung.
Above thy fellow fiends thy tyrant hand Grasp'd with resistless force supreme command: The dread terrific crowd Before thy iron sceptre bow'd.
Now, seated in thy ebon cave, Around thy throne relentless furies rave: A wreath of ever-wounding thorn Thy scowling brows encompass round, Thy heart by knawing Vultures torn, Thy meagre limbs with deathless scorpions bound.
Thy black associates, torpid IGNORANCE, And pining JEALOUSY­with eye askance, With savage rapture execute thy will, And strew the paths of life with every torturing ill Nor can the sainted dead escape thy rage; Thy vengeance haunts the silent grave, Thy taunts insult the ashes of the brave; While proud AMBITION weeps thy rancour to assuage.
The laurels round the POET's bust, Twin'd by the liberal hand of Taste, By thy malignant grasp defac'd, Fade to their native dust: Thy ever-watchful eye no labour tires, Beneath thy venom'd touch the angel TRUTH expires.
When in thy petrifying car Thy scaly dragons waft thy form, Then, swifter, deadlier far Than the keen lightning's lance, That wings its way across the yelling storm, Thy barbed shafts fly whizzing round, While every with'ring glance Inflicts a cureless wound.
Thy giant arm with pond'rous blow Hurls genius from her glorious height, Bends the fair front of Virtue low, And meanly pilfers every pure delight.
Thy hollow voice the sense appalls, Thy vigilance the mind enthralls; Rest hast thou none,­by night, by day, Thy jealous ardour seeks for prey­ Nought can restrain thy swift career; Thy smile derides the suff'rer's wrongs; Thy tongue the sland'rers tale prolongs; Thy thirst imbibes the victim's tear; Thy breast recoils from friendship's flame; Sick'ning thou hear'st the trump of Fame; Worth gives to thee, the direst pang; The Lover's rapture wounds thy heart, The proudest efforts of prolific art Shrink from thy poisonous fang.
In vain the Sculptor's lab'ring hand Calls fine proportion from the Parian stone; In vain the Minstrel's chords command The soft vibrations of seraphic tone; For swift thy violating arm Tears from perfection ev'ry charm; Nor rosy YOUTH, nor BEAUTY's smiles Thy unrelenting rage beguiles, Thy breath contaminates the fairest name, And binds the guiltless brow with ever-blist'ring shame.

Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to the Moon

 PALE GODDESS of the witching hour;
Blest Contemplation's placid friend; 
Oft in my solitary bow'r,
I mark thy lucid beam
From thy crystal car descend,
Whitening the spangled heath, and limpid sapphire stream.
And oft, amidst the shades of night I court thy undulating light; When Fairies dance around the verdant ring, Or frisk beside the bubbling spring, When the thoughtless SHEPHERD'S song Echoes thro' the silent air, As he pens his fleecy care, Or plods with saunt'ring gait, the dewy meads along.
CHASTE ORB! as thro' the vaulted sky Feath'ry clouds transparent sail; When thy languid, weeping eye, Sheds its soft tears upon the painted vale; As I ponder o'er the floods, Or tread with listless step, th'embow'ring woods, O, let thy transitory beam, Soothe my sad mind, with FANCY'S aëry dream.
Wrapt in REFLECTION, let me trace O'er the vast ethereal space, Stars, whose twinkling fires illume Dark-brow'd NIGHT'S obtrusive gloom; Where across the concave wide; Flaming METEORS swiftly glide; Or along the milky way, Vapours shoot a silvery ray; And as I mark, thy faint reclining head, Sinking on Ocean's pearly bed; Let REASON tell my soul, thus all things fade.
The Seasons change, the "garish SUN" When Day's burning car hath run Its fiery course, no more we view, While o'er the mountain's golden head, Streak'd with tints of crimson hue, Twilight's filmy curtains spread, Stealing o'er Nature's face, a desolating shade.
Yon musky FLOW'R, that scents the earth; The SOD, that gave its odours birth; The ROCK, that breaks the torrent's force; The VALE, that owns its wand'ring course; The woodlands where the vocal throng Trill the wild melodious song; Thirsty desarts, sands that glow, Mountains, cap'd with flaky snow; Luxuriant groves, enamell'd fields, All, all, prolific Nature yields, Alike shall end; the sensate HEART, With all its passions, all its fire, Touch'd by FATE'S unerring dart, Shall feel its vital strength expire; Those eyes, that beam with FRIENDSHIP'S ray, And glance ineffable delight, Shall shrink from LIFE'S translucid day, And close their fainting orbs, in DEATH'S impervious night.
Then what remains for mortal pow'r; But TIME'S dull journey to beguile; To deck with joy, the winged hour, To meet its sorrows with a patient smile; And when the toilsome pilgrimage shall end, To greet the tyrant, as a welcome friend.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

The Alien Boy

 'Twas on a Mountain, near the Western Main
An ALIEN dwelt.
A solitary Hut Built on a jutting crag, o'erhung with weeds, Mark'd the poor Exile's home.
Full ten long years The melancholy wretch had liv'd unseen By all, save HENRY, a lov'd, little Son The partner of his sorrows.
On the day When Persecution, in the sainted guise Of Liberty, spread wide its venom'd pow'r, The brave, Saint HUBERT, fled his Lordly home, And, with his baby Son, the mountain sought.
Resolv'd to cherish in his bleeding breast The secret of his birth, Ah! birth too high For his now humbled state, from infancy He taught him, labour's task: He bade him chear The dreary day of cold adversity By patience and by toil.
The Summer morn Shone on the pillow of his rushy bed; The noontide, sultry hour, he fearless past On the shagg'd eminence; while the young Kid Skipp'd, to the cadence of his minstrelsy.
At night young HENRY trimm'd the ****** fire While oft, Saint HUBERT, wove the ample net To snare the finny victim.
Oft they sang And talk'd, while sullenly the waves would sound Dashing the sandy shore.
Saint HUBERT'S eyes Would swim in tears of fondness, mix'd with joy, When he observ'd the op'ning harvest rich Of promis'd intellect, which HENRY'S soul, Whate'er the subject of their talk, display'd.
Oft, the bold Youth, in question intricate, Would seek to know the story of his birth; Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skill Enquire, why he, and only one beside, Peopled the desart mountain ? Still his Sire Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure, Varied the conversation.
Still the mind Of HENRY ponder'd; for, in their lone hut, A daily journal would Saint HUBERT make Of his long banishment: and sometimes speak Of Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;-- Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes For ever faded,--lost! One winter time, 'Twas on the Eve of Christmas, the shrill blast Swept o'er the stormy main.
The boiling foam Rose to an altitude so fierce and strong That their low hovel totter'd.
Oft they stole To the rock's margin, and with fearful eyes Mark'd the vex'd deep, as the slow rising moon Gleam'd on the world of waters.
'Twas a scene Would make a Stoic shudder! For, amid The wavy mountains, they beheld, alone , A LITTLE BOAT, now scarcely visible; And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy, Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore! Now the full Moon, in crimson lustre shone Upon the outstretch'd Ocean.
The black clouds Flew stiffly on, the wild blast following, And, as they flew, dimming the angry main With shadows horrible ! Still, the small boat Struggled amid the waves, a sombre speck Upon the wide domain of howling Death! Saint HUBERT sigh'd ! while HENRY'S speaking eye Alternately the stormy scene survey'd And his low hovel's safety.
So past on The hour of midnight,--and, since first they knew The solitary scene, no midnight hour E'er seem'd so long and weary.
While they stood, Their hands fast link'd together, and their eyes Fix'd on the troublous Ocean, suddenly The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore, Left the small wreck; and crawling on the side Of the rude crag,--a HUMAN FORM was seen! And now he climb'd the foam-wash'd precipice, And now the slip'ry weeds gave way, while he Descended to the sands: The moon rose high-- The wild blast paus'd, and the poor shipwreck'd Man Look'd round aghast, when on the frowning steep He marked the lonely exiles.
Now he call'd But he was feeble, and his voice was lost Amid the din of mingling sounds that rose From the wild scene of clamour.
Down the steep Saint HUBRET hurried, boldly venturous, Catching the slimy weeds, from point to point, And unappall'd by peril.
At the foot Of the rude rock, the fainting mariner Seiz'd on his outstretch'd arm; impatient, wild, With transport exquisite ! But ere they heard The blest exchange of sounds articulate, A furious billow, rolling on the steep, Engulph'd them in Oblivion! On the rock Young HENRY stood; with palpitating heart, And fear-struck, e'en to madness ! Now he call'd, Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew; But, mid the elemental strife of sounds, No human voice gave answer ! The clear moon No longer quiver'd on the curling main, But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light, Enough to shew all things that mov'd around, Dreadful, but indistinctly ! The black weeds Wav'd, as the night-blast swept them; and along The rocky shore the breakers, sounding low Seem'd like the whisp'ring of a million souls Beneath the green-deep mourning.
Four long hours The lorn Boy listen'd ! four long tedious hours Pass'd wearily away, when, in the East The grey beam coldly glimmer'd.
All alone Young HENRY stood aghast : his Eye wide fix'd; While his dark locks, uplifted by the storm Uncover'd met its fury.
On his cheek Despair sate terrible ! For, mid the woes, Of poverty and toil, he had not known, Till then, the horror-giving chearless hour Of TOTAL SOLITUDE! He spoke--he groan'd, But no responsive voice, no kindred tone Broke the dread pause: For now the storm had ceas'd, And the bright Sun-beams glitter'd on the breast Of the green placid Ocean.
To his Hut The lorn Boy hasten'd; there the rushy couch, The pillow still indented, met his gaze And fix'd his eye in madness.
--From that hour A maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been; His garb with sea-weeds fring'd, and his wan cheek The tablet of his mind, disorder'd, chang'd, Fading, and worn with care.
And if, by chance, A Sea-beat wand'rer from the outstretch'd main Views the lone Exile, and with gen'rous zeal Hastes to the sandy beach, he suddenly Darts 'mid the cavern'd cliffs, and leaves pursuit To track him, where no footsteps but his own, Have e'er been known to venture ! YET HE LIVES A melancholy proof that Man may bear All the rude storms of Fate, and still suspire By the wide world forgotten!
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

The ***** Girl

Dark was the dawn, and o'er the deep The boist'rous whirlwinds blew; The Sea-bird wheel'd its circling sweep, And all was drear to view-- When on the beach that binds the western shore The love-lorn ZELMA stood, list'ning the tempest's roar.
Her eager Eyes beheld the main, While on her DRACO dear She madly call'd, but call'd in vain, No sound could DRACO hear, Save the shrill yelling of the fateful blast, While ev'ry Seaman's heart, quick shudder'd as it past.
White were the billows, wide display'd The clouds were black and low; The Bittern shriek'd, a gliding shade Seem'd o'er the waves to go ! The livid flash illum'd the clam'rous main, While ZELMA pour'd, unmark'd, her melancholy strain.
"Be still!" she cried, "loud tempest cease! "O ! spare the gallant souls: "The thunder rolls--the winds increase-- "The Sea, like mountains, rolls! "While, from the deck, the storm worn victims leap, "And o'er their struggling limbs, the furious billows sweep.
"O! barb'rous Pow'r! relentless Fate! "Does Heav'n's high will decree "That some should sleep on beds of state,-- "Some, in the roaring Sea ? "Some, nurs'd in splendour, deal Oppression's blow, "While worth and DRACO pine--in Slavery and woe! VI.
"Yon Vessel oft has plough'd the main "With human traffic fraught; "Its cargo,--our dark Sons of pain-- "For worldly treasure bought ! "What had they done?--O Nature tell me why-- "Is taunting scorn the lot, of thy dark progeny? VII.
"Thou gav'st, in thy caprice, the Soul "Peculiarly enshrin'd; "Nor from the ebon Casket stole "The Jewel of the mind! "Then wherefore let the suff'ring *****'s breast "Bow to his fellow, MAN, in brighter colours drest.
"Is it the dim and glossy hue "That marks him for despair?-- "While men with blood their hands embrue, "And mock the wretch's pray'r? "Shall guiltless Slaves the Scourge of tyrants feel, "And, e'en before their GOD ! unheard, unpitied kneel.
"Could the proud rulers of the land "Our Sable race behold; "Some bow'd by torture's Giant hand "And others, basely sold ! "Then would they pity Slaves, and cry, with shame, "Whate'er their TINTS may be, their SOULS are still the same! X.
"Why seek to mock the Ethiop's face? "Why goad our hapless kind? "Can features alienate the race-- "Is there no kindred mind? "Does not the cheek which vaunts the roseate hue "Oft blush for crimes, that Ethiops never knew? XI.
"Behold ! the angry waves conspire "To check the barb'rous toil! "While wounded Nature's vengeful ire-- "Roars, round this trembling Isle! "And hark ! her voice re-echoes in the wind-- "Man was not form'd by Heav'n, to trample on his kind! XII.
"Torn from my Mother's aching breast, "My Tyrant sought my love-- "But, in the Grave shall ZELMA rest, "E'er she will faithless prove-- "No DRACO!--Thy companion I will be "To that celestial realm, where Negros shall be free! XIII.
"The Tyrant WHITE MAN taught my mind-- "The letter'd page to trace;-- "He taught me in the Soul to find "No tint, as in the face: "He bade my Reason, blossom like the tree-- "But fond affection gave, the ripen'd fruits to thee.
"With jealous rage he mark'd my love "He sent thee far away;-- "And prison'd in the plantain grove-- "Poor ZELMA pass'd the day-- "But ere the moon rose high above the main, "ZELMA, and Love contriv'd, to break the Tyrant's chain.
"Swift, o'er the plain of burning Sand "My course I bent to thee; "And soon I reach'd the billowy strand "Which bounds the stormy Sea.
-- "DRACO! my Love! Oh yet, thy ZELMA'S soul "Springs ardently to thee,--impatient of controul.
"Again the lightning flashes white-- "The rattling cords among! "Now, by the transient vivid light, "I mark the frantic throng! "Now up the tatter'd shrouds my DRACO flies-- While o'er the plunging prow, the curling billows rise.
"The topmast falls--three shackled slaves-- "Cling to the Vessel's side! "Now lost amid the madd'ning waves-- "Now on the mast they ride-- "See ! on the forecastle my DRACO stands "And now he waves his chain, now clasps his bleeding hands.
"Why, cruel WHITE-MAN! when away "My sable Love was torn, "Why did you let poor ZELMA stay, On Afric's sands to mourn? "No ! ZELMA is not left, for she will prove "In the deep troubled main, her fond--her faithful LOVE.
" XIX.
The lab'ring Ship was now a wreck, The shrouds were flutt'ring wide! The rudder gone, the lofty deck Was rock'd from side to side-- Poor ZELMA'S eyes now dropp'd their last big tear, While, from her tawny cheek, the blood recoil'd with fear.
Now frantic, on the sands she roam'd, Now shrieking stop'd to view Where high the liquid mountains foam'd, Around the exhausted crew-- 'Till, from the deck, her DRACO'S well known form Sprung mid the yawning waves, and buffetted the Storm.
Long, on the swelling surge sustain'd Brave DRACO sought the shore, Watch'd the dark Maid, but ne'er complain'd, Then sunk, to gaze no more! Poor ZELMA saw him buried by the wave-- And, with her heart's true Love, plung'd in a wat'ry grave.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to the Muse

 O, let me seize thy pen sublime
That paints, in melting dulcet rhyme, 
The glowing pow'r, the magic art, 
Th' extatic raptures of the Heart; 
Soft Beauty's timid smile serene,
The dimples of Love's sportive mien; 
The sweet descriptive tale to trace; 
To picture Nature's winning grace;
To steal the tear from Pity's eye; 
To catch the sympathetic sigh; 
O teach me, with swift light'nings force
To watch wild passion's varying course; 
To mark th' enthusiast's vivid fire,
Or calmly touch thy golden lyre,
While gentle Reason mildly sings
Responsive to the trembling strings.
SWEET Nymph, enchanting Poetry! I dedicate my mind to Thee.
Oh! from thy bright Parnassian bow'rs Descend, to bless my sombre hours; Bend to the earth thy eagle wing, And on its glowing plumage bring Blithe FANCY, from whose burning eye The young ideas sparkling fly; O, come, and let us fondly stray, Where rosy Health shall lead the way, And soft FAVONIUS lightly spread A perfum'd carpet as we tread; Ah! let us from the world remove, The calm forgetfulness to prove, Which at the still of evening's close, Lulls the tir'd peasant to repose; Repose, whose balmy joys o'er-pay The sultry labours of the day.
And when the blue-ey'd dawn appears, Just peeping thro' her veil of tears; Or blushing opes her silver gate, And on its threshold, stands elate, And flings her rosy mantle far O'er every loit'ring dewy star; And calls the wanton breezes forth, And sprinkles diamonds o'er the earth; While in the green-wood's shade profound, The insect race, with buzzing sound Flit o'er the rill,­a glitt'ring train, Or swarm along the sultry plain.
Then in sweet converse let us rove, Where in the thyme-embroider'd grove, The musky air its fragrance pours Upon the silv'ry scatter'd show'rs; To hail soft Zephyr, as she goes To fan the dew-drop from the rose; To shelter from the scorching beam, And muse beside the rippling stream.
Or when, at twilight's placid hour, We stroll to some sequester'd bow'r; And watch the haughty Sun retire Beneath his canopy of fire; While slow the dusky clouds enfold Day's crimson curtains fring'd with gold; And o'er the meadows faintly fly Pale shadows of the purpling sky: While softly o'er the pearl-deck'd plain, Cold Dian leads the sylvan train; In mazy dance and sportive glee, SWEET MUSE, I'll fondly turn to thee; And thou shalt deck my couch with flow'rs, And wing with joy my silent hours.
When Sleep, with downy hand, shall spread A wreath of poppies round my head; Then, FANCY, on her wing sublime, Shall waft me to the sacred clime Where my enlighten'd sense shall view, Thro' ether realms of azure hue, That flame, where SHAKESPEARE us'd to fill, With matchless fire, his "golden quill.
" While, from its point bright Genius caught The wit supreme, the glowing thought, The magic tone, that sweetly hung About the music of his tongue.
Then will I skim the floating air, On a light couch of gossamer, While with my wonder-aching eye, I contemplate the spangled sky, And hear the vaulted roof repeat The song of Inspiration sweet; While round the winged cherub train, Shall iterate the aëry strain: Swift, thro' my quiv'ring nerves shall float The tremours of each thrilling note; And every eager sense confess Extatic transport's wild excess: 'Till, waking from the glorious dream, I hail the morn's refulgent beam.
DEAR Maid! of ever-varying mien, Exulting, pensive, gay, serene, Now, in transcendent pathos drest, Now, gentle as the turtle's breast; Where'er thy feath'ry steps shall lead, To side-long hill, or flow'ry mead; To sorrow's coldest, darkest cell, Or where, by Cynthia's glimm'ring ray, The dapper fairies frisk and play About some cowslip's golden bell; And, in their wanton frolic mirth, Pluck the young daisies from the earth, To canopy their tiny heads, And decorate their verdant beds; While to the grass-hopper's shrill tune, They quaff libations to the moon, From acorn goblets, amply fill'd With dew, from op'ning flow'rs distill'd.
Or when the lurid tempest pours, From its dark urn, impetuous show'rs, Or from its brow's terrific frown, Hurls the pale murd'rous lightnings down; To thy enchanting breast I'll spring, And shield me with thy golden wing.
Or when amidst ethereal fire, Thou strik'st thy DELLA CRUSCAN lyre, While round, to catch the heavenly song, Myriads of wond'ring seraphs throng: Whether thy harp's empassioned strain Pours forth an OVID's tender pain; Or in PINDARIC flights sublime, Re-echoes thro' the starry clime; Thee I'll adore; transcendent guest, And woe thee to my burning breast.
But, if thy magic pow'rs impart One soft sensation to the heart, If thy warm precepts can dispense One thrilling transport o'er my sense; Oh! keep thy gifts, and let me fly, In APATHY's cold arms to die.

Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Despair

 TERRIFIC FIEND! thou Monster fell, 
Condemn'd in haunts profane to dwell, 
Why quit thy solitary Home, 
O'er wide Creation's paths to roam? 
Pale Tyrant of the timid Heart, 
Whose visionary spells can bind 
The strongest passions of the mind, 
Freezing Life's current with thy baneful Art.
Nature recoils when thou art near, For round thy form all plagues are seen; Thine is the frantic tone, the sullen mien, The glance of petrifying fear, The haggard Brow, the low'ring Eye, The hollow Cheek, the smother'd Sigh, When thy usurping fangs assail, The sacred Bonds of Friendship fail.
Meek-bosom'd Pity sues in vain; Imperious Sorrow spurns relief, Feeds on the luxury of Grief, Drinks the hot Tear, and hugs the galling Chain.
AH! plunge no more thy ruthless dart, In the dark centre of the guilty Heart; The POW'R SUPREME, with pitying eye, Looks on the erring Child of Misery; MERCY arrests the wing of Time; To expiate the wretch's crime; Insulted HEAV'N consign'd thy brand To the first Murd'rer's crimson hand.
Swift o'er the earth the Monster flew, And round th' ensanguin'd Poisons threw, By CONSCIENCE goaded­driven by FEAR, Till the meek Cherub HOPE subdued his fell career.
Thy Reign is past, when erst the brave Imbib'd contagion o'er the midnight lamp, Close pent in loathsome cells, where poisons damp Hung round the confines of a Living Grave; * Where no glimm'ring ray illum'd The flinty walls, where pond'rous chains Bound the wan Victim to the humid earth, Where VALOUR, GENIUS, TASTE, and WORTH, In pestilential caves entomb'd, Sought thy cold arms, and smiling mock'd their pains.
THERE,­each procrastinated hour The woe-worn suff'rer gasping lay, While by his side in proud array Stalk'd the HUGE FIEND, DESPOTIC POW'R.
There REASON clos'd her radiant eye, And fainting HOPE retir'd to die, Truth shrunk appall'd, In spells of icy Apathy enthrall'd; Till FREEDOM spurn'd the ignominious chain, And roused from Superstition's night, Exulting Nature claim'd her right, And call'd dire Vengeance from her dark domain.
Now take thy solitary flight Amid the turbid gales of night, Where Spectres starting from the tomb, Glide along th' impervious gloom; Or, stretch'd upon the sea-beat shore, Let the wild winds, as they roar, Rock Thee on thy Bed of Stone; Or, in gelid caverns pent, Listen to the sullen moan Of subterranean winds;­or glut thy sight Where stupendous mountains rent Hurl their vast fragments from their dizzy height.
At Thy approach the rifted Pine Shall o'er the shatter'd Rock incline, Whose trembling brow, with wild weeds drest, Frowns on the tawny EAGLE's nest; THERE enjoy the 'witching hour, And freeze in Frenzy's dire conceit, Or seek the Screech-owl's lone retreat, On the bleak rampart of some nodding Tow'r.
In some forest long and drear, Tempt the fierce BANDITTI's rage, War with famish'd Tygers wage, And mock the taunts of Fear.
When across the yawning deep, The Demons of the Tempest sweep, Or deaf'ning Thunders bursting cast Their red bolts on the shivering mast, While fix'd below the sea-boy stands, As threat'ning Death his soul dismays, He lifts his supplicating hands, And shrieks, and groans, and weeps, and prays, Till lost amid the floating fire The agonizing crew expire; THEN let thy transports rend the air, For mad'ning Anguish feeds DESPAIR.
When o'er the couch of pale Disease The MOTHER bends, with tearful eye, And trembles, lest her quiv'ring sigh, Should wake the darling of her breast, Now, by the taper's feeble rays, She steals a last, fond, eager gaze.
Ah, hapless Parent! gaze no more, Thy CHERUB soars among the Blest, Life's crimson Fount begins to freeze, His transitory scene is o'er.
She starts­she raves­her burning brain, Consumes, unconscious of its fires, Dead to the Heart's convulsive Pain, Bewilder'd Memory retires.
See! See! she grasps her flowing hair, From her fix'd eye the big drops roll, Her proud Affliction mocks controul, And riots in DESPAIR, Such are thy haunts, malignant Pow'r, There all thy murd'rous Poisons pour; But come not near my calm retreat, Where Peace and holy FRIENDSHIP meet; Where SCIENCE sheds a gentle ray, And guiltless Mirth beguiles the day, Where Bliss congenial to the MUSE Shall round my Heart her sweets diffuse, Where, from each restless Passion free, I give my noiseless hours, BLESS'D POETRY, TO THEE.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode on Adversity

 WHERE o'er my head, the deaf'ning Tempest blew, 
And Night's cold lamp cast forth a feeble ray; 
Where o'er the woodlands, vivid light'nings flew, 
Cleft the strong oak, and scorch'd the blossom'd spray; 
At morn's approach, I mark the sun's warm glow 
O'er the grey hill a crimson radiance throw; 
I mark the silv'ry fragrant dew, 
Give lustre to the vi'let's hue; 
The shallow rivers o'er their pebbly way, 
In slow meanders murmuring play; 
Day spreads her beams, the lofty forest tree, 
Shakes from its moisten'd head the pearly show'r, 
All nature, feels the renovating hour, 
All, but the sorrowing child of cold ADVERSITY; 
For her, the linnet's downy throat 
Breathes harmony in vain; 
Unmov'd, she hears the warbling note 
In all the melody of song complain; 
By her unmark'd the flowret's bloom, 
In vain the landscape sheds perfume; 
Her languid form, on earth's damp bed, 
In coarse and tatter'd garb reclines; 
In silent agony she pines; 
Or, if she hears some stranger's tread, 
To a dark nook, ashamed she flies, 
And with her scanty robe, o'er-shades her weeping eyes.
Her hair, dishevel'd, wildly plays With every freezing gale; While down her cold cheek, deadly pale, The tear of pensive sorrow strays; She shuns, the PITY of the proud, Her mind, still triumphs, unsubdu'd Nor stoops, its misery to obtrude, Upon the vulgar croud.
Unheeded, and unknown, To some bleak wilderness she flies; And seated on a moss-clad stone, Unwholesome vapours round her rise, And hang their mischiefs on her brow; The ruffian winds, her limbs expose; Still, still, her heart disdains to bow, She cherishes her woes.
NOW FAMINE spreads her sable wings; INGRATITUDE insults her pangs; While from a thousand eager fangs, Madd'ning she flies;­The recreant crew With taunting smiles her steps pursue; While on her burning, bleeding heart, Fresh wounded by Affliction's dart, NEGLECT, her icy poison flings; From HOPE's celestial bosom hurl'd, She seeks oblivion's gloom, Now, now, she mocks the barb'rous world, AND TRIUMPHS IN THE TOMB.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Reflection

 O THOU, whose sober precepts can controul 
The wild impatience of the troubled soul, 
Sweet Nymph serene ! whose all-consoling pow'r 
Awakes to calm delight the ling'ring hour; 
O hear thy suppliant's ardent pray'r ! 
Chase from my pensive mind corroding care, 
Steal thro' the heated pulses of the brain, 
Charm sorrow to repose­and lull the throb of pain.
O, tell me, what are life's best joys? Are they not visions that decay, Sweet honey'd poisons, gilded toys, Vain glitt'ring baubles of a day? O say what shadow do they leave behind, Save the sad vacuum of the sated mind? Borne on the eagle wings of Fame, MAN soars above calm Reason's sway, "Vaulting AMBITION" mocks each tender claim, Plucks the dear bonds of social life away; As o'er the vanquish'd slave she wields her spear, COMPASSION turns aside---REFLECTlON drops a tear.
Behold the wretch, whose sordid heart, Steep'd in Content's oblivious balm, Secure in Luxury's bewitching calm, Repels pale Mis'ry's touch, and mocks Affliction's smart; Unmov'd he marks the bitter tear, In vain the plaints of woe his thoughts assail, The bashful mourner's pitious tale Nor melts his flinty soul, nor vibrates on his ear, O blest REFLECTION ! let thy magic pow'r Awake his torpid sense, his slumb'ring thought, Tel1 him ADVERSITY'S unpitied hour A brighter lesson gives, than Stoics taught: Tell him that WEALTH no blessing can impart So sweet as PITY'S tear­that bathes the wounded Heart.
Go tell the vain, the insolent, and fair, That life's best days are only days of care; That BEAUTY, flutt'ring like a painted fly, Owes to the spring of youth its rarest die; When Winter comes, its charms shall fade away, And the poor insect wither in decay: Go bid the giddy phantom learn from thee, That VIRTUE only braves mortality.
Then come, REFLECTION, soft-ey'd maid! I know thee, and I prize thy charms; Come, in thy gentlest smiles array'd, And I will press thee in my eager arms: Keep from my aching heart the "fiend DESPAIR," Pluck from my brow her THORN, and plant the OLIVE there.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

The Mistletoe (A Christmas Tale)

 A farmer's wife, both young and gay,
And fresh as op'ning buds of May;
Had taken to herself, a Spouse,
And plighted many solemn vows,
That she a faithful mate would prove,
In meekness, duty, and in love!
That she, despising joy and wealth,
Would be, in sickness and in health,
His only comfort and his Friend--
But, mark the sequel,--and attend!

This Farmer, as the tale is told--
Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!
His, was the wintry hour of life,
While summer smiled before his wife;
A contrast, rather form'd to cloy
The zest of matrimonial joy!

'Twas Christmas time, the peasant throng
Assembled gay, with dance and Song:
The Farmer's Kitchen long had been
Of annual sports the busy scene;
The wood-fire blaz'd, the chimney wide
Presented seats, on either side;
Long rows of wooden Trenchers, clean,
Bedeck'd with holly-boughs, were seen;
The shining Tankard's foamy ale
Gave spirits to the Goblin tale,
And many a rosy cheek--grew pale.
It happen'd, that some sport to shew The ceiling held a MISTLETOE.
A magic bough, and well design'd To prove the coyest Maiden, kind.
A magic bough, which DRUIDS old Its sacred mysteries enroll'd; And which, or gossip Fame's a liar, Still warms the soul with vivid fire; Still promises a store of bliss While bigots snatch their Idol's kiss.
This MISTLETOE was doom'd to be The talisman of Destiny; Beneath its ample boughs we're told Full many a timid Swain grew bold; Full many a roguish eye askance Beheld it with impatient glance, And many a ruddy cheek confest, The triumphs of the beating breast; And many a rustic rover sigh'd Who ask'd the kiss, and was denied.
First MARG'RY smil'd and gave her Lover A Kiss; then thank'd her stars, 'twas over! Next, KATE, with a reluctant pace, Was tempted to the mystic place; Then SUE, a merry laughing jade A dimpled yielding blush betray'd; While JOAN her chastity to shew Wish'd "the bold knaves would serve her so," She'd "teach the rogues such wanton play!" And well she could, she knew the way.
The FARMER, mute with jealous care, Sat sullen, in his wicker chair; Hating the noisy gamesome host Yet, fearful to resign his post; He envied all their sportive strife But most he watch'd his blooming wife, And trembled, lest her steps should go, Incautious, near the MISTLETOE.
Now HODGE, a youth of rustic grace With form athletic; manly face; On MISTRESS HOMESPUN turn'd his eye And breath'd a soul-declaring sigh! Old HOMESPUN, mark'd his list'ning Fair And nestled in his wicker chair; HODGE swore, she might his heart command-- The pipe was dropp'd from HOMESPUN'S hand! HODGE prest her slender waist around; The FARMER check'd his draught, and frown'd! And now beneath the MISTLETOE 'Twas MISTRESS HOMESPUN'S turn to go; Old Surly shook his wicker chair, And sternly utter'd--"Let her dare!" HODGE, to the FARMER'S wife declar'd Such husbands never should be spar'd; Swore, they deserv'd the worst disgrace, That lights upon the wedded race; And vow'd--that night he would not go Unblest, beneath the MISTLETOE.
The merry group all recommend An harmless Kiss, the strife to end: "Why not ?" says MARG'RY, "who would fear, "A dang'rous moment, once a year?" SUSAN observ'd, that "ancient folks "Were seldom pleas'd with youthful jokes;" But KATE, who, till that fatal hour, Had held, o'er HODGE, unrivall'd pow'r, With curving lip and head aside Look'd down and smil'd in conscious pride, Then, anxious to conceal her care, She humm'd--"what fools some women are!" Now, MISTRESS HOMESPUN, sorely vex'd, By pride and jealous rage perplex'd, And angry, that her peevish spouse Should doubt her matrimonial vows, But, most of all, resolved to make An envious rival's bosom ache; Commanded Hodge to let her go, Nor lead her to the Mistletoe; "Why should you ask it o'er and o'er?" Cried she, "we've been there twice before!" 'Tis thus, to check a rival's sway, That Women oft themselves betray; While VANITY, alone, pursuing, They rashly prove, their own undoing.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Health

 Come, bright-eyed maid, 
Pure offspring of the tranquil mind,
Haste, my fev'rish temples bind
With olive wreaths of em'rald hue
Steep'd in morn's ethereal dew, 
Where in mild HELVETIA's shade, 
Blushing summer round her flings
Warm gales and sunny show'rs that hang upon her wings.
I'll seek thee in ITALIA's bow'rs, Where supine on beds of flow'rs Melody's soul-touching throng Strike the soft lute or trill the melting song: Where blithe FANCY, queen of pleasure, Pours each rich luxuriant treasure.
For thee I'll climb the breezy hill, While the balmy dews distill Odours from the budding thorn, Drop'd from the lust'rous lids of morn; Who, starting from her shad'wy bed, Binds her gold fillet round the mountain's head.
There I'll press from herbs and flow'rs Juices bless'd with opiate pow'rs, Whose magic potency can heal The throb of agonizing pain, And thro' the purple swelling vein With subtle influence steal: Heav'n opes for thee its aromatic store To bathe each languid gasping pore; But where, O where, shall cherish'd sorrow find The lenient balm to soothe the feeling mind.
O, mem'ry! busy barb'rous foe, At thy fell touch I wake to woe: Alas! the flatt'ring dream is o'er, From thee the bright illusions fly, Thou bidst the glitt'ring phantoms die, And hope, and youth, and fancy, charm no more.
No more for me the tip-toe SPRING Drops flowrets from her infant wing; For me in vain the wild thymes bloom Thro' the forest flings perfume; In vain I climb th'embroider'd hill To breathe the clear autumnal air; In vain I quaff the lucid rill Since jocund HEALTH delights not there To greet my heart:­no more I view, With sparkling eye, the silv'ry dew Sprinkling May's tears upon the folded rose, As low it droops its young and blushing head, Press'd by grey twilight to its mossy bed: No more I lave amidst the tide, Or bound along the tufted grove, Or o'er enamel'd meadows rove, Where, on Zephyr's pinions, glide Salubrious airs that waft the nymph repose.
Lightly o'er the yellow heath Steals thy soft and fragrant breath, Breath inhal'd from musky flow'rs Newly bath'd in perfum'd show'rs.
See the rosy-finger'd morn Opes her bright refulgent eye, Hills and valleys to adorn, While from her burning glance the scatter'd vapours fly.
Soon, ah soon! the painted scene, The hill's blue top, the valley's green, Midst clouds of snow, and whirlwinds drear, Shall cold and comfortless appear: The howling blast shall strip the plain, And bid my pensive bosom learn, Tho' NATURE's face shall smile again, And, on the glowing breast of Spring Creation all her gems shall fling, YOUTH's April morn shall ne'er return.
Then come, Oh quickly come, Hygeian Maid! Each throbbing pulse, each quiv'ring nerve pervade.
Flash thy bright fires across my languid eye, Tint my pale visage with thy roseate die, Bid my heart's current own a temp'rate glow, And from its crimson source in tepid channels flow.
O HEALTH, celestial Nymph! without thy aid Creation sickens in oblivions shade: Along the drear and solitary gloom We steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb; Youth, age, wealth, poverty alike agree To live is anguish, when depriv'd of Thee.
To THEE indulgent Heav'n benignly gave The touch to heal, the extacy to save.
The balmy incense of thy fost'ring breath Wafts the wan victim from the fangs of Death, Robs the grim Tyrant of his trembling prize, Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies.
Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest To meet the rising son with od'rous breast, Which glow'd with artless tints at noon-tide hour, And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower, With with'ring anguish mourn the parting Day, Shrink to the Earth, and sorrowing fade away.