 | Memorials of Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe |  |
VI. LINES
Supposed to have been written by Robinson Crusoe on the acquisition of Friday.
I have stood on the brink of the grave:
Savage feet have imprinted the sand;
But an arm that was mighty to save,
Has saved in this terrible land.
How awful the silence appear'd
Of this once uninhabited plain!
When the shrieks of the dying were heard,
How I wish'd for that silence again!
Savage feet have imprinted the sand;
But an arm that was mighty to save,
Has saved in this terrible land.
How awful the silence appear'd
Of this once uninhabited plain!
When the shrieks of the dying were heard,
How I wish'd for that silence again!
But the tempest which gather'd around
Was fraught with a blessing for me;
One victim a refuge has found,
I, Friday, a treasure in thee.
Some affection the bosom requires,
It seeks to be cherish'd again;
This sentiment never expires,
'Tis wove in the tecture of man.
Was fraught with a blessing for me;
One victim a refuge has found,
I, Friday, a treasure in thee.
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It seeks to be cherish'd again;
This sentiment never expires,
'Tis wove in the tecture of man.
Where no human attachment can dwell,
Some favourite brute has a place;
Ye meaner associates, farewell,
I have one of a different race.
I command, and he flies at my nod;
I weep, and he tries to console;
He is a man, in the image of God,
And endued with a reasoning soul.
Some favourite brute has a place;
Ye meaner associates, farewell,
I have one of a different race.
I command, and he flies at my nod;
I weep, and he tries to console;
He is a man, in the image of God,
And endued with a reasoning soul.
O ye, to whom Providence sends
The domestic endearments of life,
Who, encircl'd by kindred and friends,
Still have room for dissension and strife;
Could ye see the transporting delight
With which I contemplate my guest,
Those endearments ye never would slight;
While yet of such comforts possest.
The domestic endearments of life,
Who, encircl'd by kindred and friends,
Still have room for dissension and strife;
Could ye see the transporting delight
With which I contemplate my guest,
Those endearments ye never would slight;
While yet of such comforts possest.
What ye now with indifference see,
Ye Nature's best gift had esteem'd;
Had ye learnt in a desert, like me,
How lovely society seem'd;
How ready myself I have been
Some offence to suppose from a friend!
And yet, with resentments so keen,
How unfeelingly I could offend.
Ye Nature's best gift had esteem'd;
Had ye learnt in a desert, like me,
How lovely society seem'd;
How ready myself I have been
Some offence to suppose from a friend!
And yet, with resentments so keen,
How unfeelingly I could offend.
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But here I have learnt to repress
Ev'ry sally of passion or whim;
For I would not my savage distress,
Or for worlds be offended with him.
Shall the horrors of solitude teach
More than civil society can?
Must a voice in the wilderness preach,
“That man should be tender to man?”
Ev'ry sally of passion or whim;
For I would not my savage distress,
Or for worlds be offended with him.
Shall the horrors of solitude teach
More than civil society can?
Must a voice in the wilderness preach,
“That man should be tender to man?”
From this gloomy and desolate waste,
No way to escape could I find;
And I thought that a gulph had been plac'd
To separate me from mankind.
Though I sat in the shadow of death
I was seen by the Father of Light;
He who kindled my life with his breath,
Now illumines my wearisome night.
No way to escape could I find;
And I thought that a gulph had been plac'd
To separate me from mankind.
Though I sat in the shadow of death
I was seen by the Father of Light;
He who kindled my life with his breath,
Now illumines my wearisome night.
Dear beams that revisit these eyes,
Are ye sent to prepare them for day?
As the dawn first approaches the skies
With a doubtful and tremulous ray?
O, Hope, can thy visions be true?
No, Reason the picture disowns;
Fair England arose to my view
With the hum of her populous towns.
Are ye sent to prepare them for day?
As the dawn first approaches the skies
With a doubtful and tremulous ray?
O, Hope, can thy visions be true?
No, Reason the picture disowns;
Fair England arose to my view
With the hum of her populous towns.
But Hope is a dangerous guest,
For the heart will grow sick with delay;
Disappointment imbitters the breast,
And drives resignation away.
The comforts that Heaven denies
Are withheld but from motives of love;
And all tears shall be wiped from my eyes
In the blessed assembly above.
For the heart will grow sick with delay;
Disappointment imbitters the breast,
And drives resignation away.
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Are withheld but from motives of love;
And all tears shall be wiped from my eyes
In the blessed assembly above.
| Memorials of Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe | |