The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
TO POPE'S OAK. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
207
TO POPE'S OAK.
“Enough for me, that to the list'ning swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.”
POPE.
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.”
POPE.
“Here Pope first sung!” O hallow'd tree!
Such is the boast thy bark displays;
Thy branches, like thy patron's lays,
Shall ever, ever, sacred be;
Nor with'ring storm, nor woodman's stroke,
Shall harm the Poet's favourite Oak.
Such is the boast thy bark displays;
Thy branches, like thy patron's lays,
Shall ever, ever, sacred be;
Nor with'ring storm, nor woodman's stroke,
Shall harm the Poet's favourite Oak.
'Twas here he woo'd his Muse of fire,
While Inspiration's wond'rous art,
Sublimely stealing thro' his heart,
Did Fancy's proudest themes inspire;
'Twas here he wisely learnt to smile
At empty praise and courtly guile.
While Inspiration's wond'rous art,
Sublimely stealing thro' his heart,
Did Fancy's proudest themes inspire;
'Twas here he wisely learnt to smile
At empty praise and courtly guile.
208
Retir'd from flatt'ring, specious arts,
From fawning sycophants of state,
From knaves with ravag'd wealth elate,
And little slaves with tyrant hearts:
In conscious freedom nobly proud,
He scorn'd the envious grov'ling crowd.
From fawning sycophants of state,
From knaves with ravag'd wealth elate,
And little slaves with tyrant hearts:
In conscious freedom nobly proud,
He scorn'd the envious grov'ling crowd.
Tho' splendid domes around them rise,
And pompous titles lull to rest
Each struggling virtue in the breast,
'Till Pow'r the place of Worth supplies;
The wretched herd can never know
The sober joys these haunts bestow.
And pompous titles lull to rest
Each struggling virtue in the breast,
'Till Pow'r the place of Worth supplies;
The wretched herd can never know
The sober joys these haunts bestow.
Does the fond Muse delight to dwell,
Where freezing penance spreads its shade?
Where scarce the sun's warm beams pervade
The hoary Hermit's dreary cell?
Ah! no—There Superstition blind
With torpid langour chills the mind.
Where freezing penance spreads its shade?
Where scarce the sun's warm beams pervade
The hoary Hermit's dreary cell?
Ah! no—There Superstition blind
With torpid langour chills the mind.
Or does she seek Life's busy scene,
Ah! no, the sordid mean and proud,
The little, trifling, flutt'ring crowd,
Can never taste her bliss serene;
She flies from Fashion's tinsel toys,
Nor courts her smile, nor shares her joys.
Ah! no, the sordid mean and proud,
The little, trifling, flutt'ring crowd,
Can never taste her bliss serene;
She flies from Fashion's tinsel toys,
Nor courts her smile, nor shares her joys.
209
Nor can the dull pedantic mind
E'er boast her bright creative fires;
Above constraint her wing aspires,
Nor rigid spells her flight can bind;
The narrow track of musty schools
She leaves to plodding vapid fools.
E'er boast her bright creative fires;
Above constraint her wing aspires,
Nor rigid spells her flight can bind;
The narrow track of musty schools
She leaves to plodding vapid fools.
To scenes like these she bends her way,
Here the best feelings of the soul
Nor interest taints, nor threats controul,
Nor vice allures, nor snares betray;
Here, from each trivial hope remov'd,
Our Bard first sought the Muse he lov'd.
Here the best feelings of the soul
Nor interest taints, nor threats controul,
Nor vice allures, nor snares betray;
Here, from each trivial hope remov'd,
Our Bard first sought the Muse he lov'd.
Still shall thy pensive gloom diffuse
The verse sublime, the dulcet song;
While round the Poet's seat shall throng
Each rapture sacred to the Muse;
Still shall thy verdant branches be
The bow'r of wond'rous minstrelsy.
The verse sublime, the dulcet song;
While round the Poet's seat shall throng
Each rapture sacred to the Muse;
Still shall thy verdant branches be
The bow'r of wond'rous minstrelsy.
When glow-worms light their little fires,
The am'rous swain and timid maid
Shall sit and talk beneath thy shade,
As Eve's last rosy tint expires;
While on thy boughs the plaintive Dove
Shall learn from them the tale of Love.
The am'rous swain and timid maid
Shall sit and talk beneath thy shade,
As Eve's last rosy tint expires;
While on thy boughs the plaintive Dove
Shall learn from them the tale of Love.
210
When round the quiv'ring moon-beams play,
And Fairies form the grassy ring,
'Till the shrill Lark unfurls his wing,
And soars to greet the blushing day,
The Nightingale shall pour to thee
Her song of love-lorn melody.
And Fairies form the grassy ring,
'Till the shrill Lark unfurls his wing,
And soars to greet the blushing day,
The Nightingale shall pour to thee
Her song of love-lorn melody.
When thro' the forest dark and drear
Full oft, as ancient stories say,
Old Herne the Hunter loves to stray,
While village-damsels quake with fear;
Nor sprite or spectre shall invade
The deep repose that marks thy shade.
Full oft, as ancient stories say,
Old Herne the Hunter loves to stray,
While village-damsels quake with fear;
Nor sprite or spectre shall invade
The deep repose that marks thy shade.
Blest oak! thy mossy trunk shall be
As lasting as the Laurel's bloom
That decks immortal Virgil's tomb,
And fam'd as Shakspere's hallow'd tree;
For every grateful Muse shall twine
A votive Wreath to deck thy shrine.
As lasting as the Laurel's bloom
That decks immortal Virgil's tomb,
And fam'd as Shakspere's hallow'd tree;
For every grateful Muse shall twine
A votive Wreath to deck thy shrine.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |