The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
DONALD AND MARY. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
18
DONALD AND MARY.
On Scotia's Hills a gentle Maid,
The fairest of the rustic throng,
When round the glitt'ring Moon-beams play'd,
Oft pour'd her sad and plaintive song:
Her eye was dimm'd with sorrow's tears,
Which from their azure fountain roll'd;
Her throbbing heart was fraught with fears;
Pale was her cheek, and deadly cold!
The fairest of the rustic throng,
When round the glitt'ring Moon-beams play'd,
Oft pour'd her sad and plaintive song:
Her eye was dimm'd with sorrow's tears,
Which from their azure fountain roll'd;
Her throbbing heart was fraught with fears;
Pale was her cheek, and deadly cold!
By Friends forgot, by Foes oppress'd,
By Fortune's chilling frown subdu'd,
Fierce Frenzy hover'd o'er her breast,
And wither'd Grief her steps pursu'd:
But, ah! more fatal e'en than those;
The worst of pangs 'twas hers to share;
While Envy, smiling, mock'd her woes—
For Envy feeds on human care.
By Fortune's chilling frown subdu'd,
Fierce Frenzy hover'd o'er her breast,
And wither'd Grief her steps pursu'd:
But, ah! more fatal e'en than those;
The worst of pangs 'twas hers to share;
While Envy, smiling, mock'd her woes—
For Envy feeds on human care.
19
A gallant Youth, of Scottish birth,
Had woo'd and won the gentle maid;
Not all the treasur'd gems of earth
Like Donald's music could persuade;
Not all that India's shores supply,
Or all the wealth of Britain's Isle,
Could charm like Donald's speaking eye,
Or win the soul like Donald's smile.
Had woo'd and won the gentle maid;
Not all the treasur'd gems of earth
Like Donald's music could persuade;
Not all that India's shores supply,
Or all the wealth of Britain's Isle,
Could charm like Donald's speaking eye,
Or win the soul like Donald's smile.
But Glory, lifting high her crest,
His glowing fancy lur'd to arms;
Fame filled his young and panting breast—
He left his Mary's world of charms.
Ill-fated Donald fought and bled!
The green sod veil'd his manly form,
While round his dark and clay-cold bed
Bleak blew the wild and wint'ry storm.
His glowing fancy lur'd to arms;
Fame filled his young and panting breast—
He left his Mary's world of charms.
Ill-fated Donald fought and bled!
The green sod veil'd his manly form,
While round his dark and clay-cold bed
Bleak blew the wild and wint'ry storm.
No marble trophies deck'd the spot,
To ask the pensive trav'ler's sigh;
No verse to tell his hapless lot,
Or bid the valiant learn to die.
But there the Snow-drop, meek and pale,
With Morning's tears would oft o'erflow;
And there the Bird of Sorrow's tale
Repeated Mary's tender woe.
To ask the pensive trav'ler's sigh;
No verse to tell his hapless lot,
Or bid the valiant learn to die.
But there the Snow-drop, meek and pale,
With Morning's tears would oft o'erflow;
And there the Bird of Sorrow's tale
Repeated Mary's tender woe.
20
“Ah! who has seen my gallant Boy,
In martial trim, and rich array?
Ah! who has heard my only joy
Sing to yon Moon his roundelay?
His laurel shines in yonder sky,
The brightest of the starry train;
Though in the grave his beauties lie,
All crimson'd o'er with many a stain.
In martial trim, and rich array?
Ah! who has heard my only joy
Sing to yon Moon his roundelay?
His laurel shines in yonder sky,
The brightest of the starry train;
Though in the grave his beauties lie,
All crimson'd o'er with many a stain.
“Ah! have you seen my Donald brave,
Enthron'd on yonder passing cloud?
Or gliding o'er yon whitening wave,
Or chaunting, 'midst the tempest loud?
Now, o'er yon hill the day-star peeps,
The merry birds awake to glee;
Low in the grave my Donald sleeps,
Nor hears their song, nor thinks of me!
Enthron'd on yonder passing cloud?
Or gliding o'er yon whitening wave,
Or chaunting, 'midst the tempest loud?
Now, o'er yon hill the day-star peeps,
The merry birds awake to glee;
Low in the grave my Donald sleeps,
Nor hears their song, nor thinks of me!
“Give me his sword, of mickle fame,
And give me too, his bonnet gay;
On the green-turf to carve his name,
And decorate his hallow'd clay.
Ye costly graves, where Monarchs lie,
With Crowns and Sceptres, won by birth;
Vainly your glitt'ring baubles vie
With Donald's Sword, and Donald's Worth!
And give me too, his bonnet gay;
On the green-turf to carve his name,
And decorate his hallow'd clay.
Ye costly graves, where Monarchs lie,
With Crowns and Sceptres, won by birth;
Vainly your glitt'ring baubles vie
With Donald's Sword, and Donald's Worth!
21
By weeping Evening's fading light,
Far o'er the thistled heath she stray'd,
Till, lost amidst the frowns of night,
The cold blast chill'd the beauteous maid:
Along the dreary, desart gloom
Her mournful song was heard to glide;
“With joy,” she said, “I meet my doom!”
Then sigh'd her Donald's name—and died!
Far o'er the thistled heath she stray'd,
Till, lost amidst the frowns of night,
The cold blast chill'd the beauteous maid:
Along the dreary, desart gloom
Her mournful song was heard to glide;
“With joy,” she said, “I meet my doom!”
Then sigh'd her Donald's name—and died!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |