The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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II. |
III. |
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The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | ||
209
ODE IN IMITATION OF POPE.
How blest is he who, born to tread
The silent paths of sweet repose,
Finds peace beneath the rural shed,
Which pomp—ne'er knows.
The silent paths of sweet repose,
Finds peace beneath the rural shed,
Which pomp—ne'er knows.
Who roves, with independent mind,
O'er hills, and meads, and flow'ry plains,
That feast on nature's lap to find
Which pride—disdains!
O'er hills, and meads, and flow'ry plains,
That feast on nature's lap to find
Which pride—disdains!
How blest to sing, and talk, and smile,
The busy envious world forgot,
To fear no lurking stings of guile,
In his low cot.
The busy envious world forgot,
To fear no lurking stings of guile,
In his low cot.
210
When high the matin lark is seen,
With flutt'ring wings and shrilly song,
He saunters o'er the dewy green,
Fearless of wrong.
With flutt'ring wings and shrilly song,
He saunters o'er the dewy green,
Fearless of wrong.
And when the sultry sun flames high,
He seeks the silent shade or dell,
No fierce banditti lurking nigh,
With murd'rous spell
He seeks the silent shade or dell,
No fierce banditti lurking nigh,
With murd'rous spell
As ev'ning's crimson shadows fade,
And twilight spreads its mantle grey,
He plods along the upland glade,
Serenely gay!
And twilight spreads its mantle grey,
He plods along the upland glade,
Serenely gay!
Then on some pallet clean and low,
He sleeps, nor dreams of ills the while,
And when the eastern mountains glow,
He wakes—to smile.
He sleeps, nor dreams of ills the while,
And when the eastern mountains glow,
He wakes—to smile.
He shuns the pride of wealth and birth—
No vassal's lord—no tyrant's slave!
His hut, the haunt of modest worth,
The turf—his grave.
No vassal's lord—no tyrant's slave!
His hut, the haunt of modest worth,
The turf—his grave.
The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | ||