The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
LINES
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| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
228
LINES
WRITTEN BY THE SIDE OF A RIVER.
Flow soft River, gently stray,
Still a silent waving tide
O'er thy glitt'ring carpet glide,
While I chaunt my roundelay,
As I gather from thy bank,
Shelter'd by the poplar dank,
King-cups, deck'd in golden pride,
Harebells sweet, and “daisies pied;”
While beneath the evening sky
Soft the western breezes fly.
Gentle River, should'st thou be
Touch'd with mournful sympathy,
When reflection tells my soul
Winter's icy breath shall quell
Thy sweet bosom's graceful swell,
And thy dimpling course controul
Should a crystal tear of mine,
Fall upon thy lucid breast,
Oh receive the trembling guest,
For 'tis Pity's drop divine!
Gentle Zephyr, softly play,
Shake thy dewy wings around,
Sprinkle odours o'er the ground,
While I chaunt my Roundelay.
While the woodbine's mingling shade
Veils my pensive, drooping head,
Fan, oh fan, the busy gale,
That rudely wantons round my cheek,
Where the tear of suff'rance meek
Glitters on the Lily pale:
Ah! no more the damask Rose
There in crimson lustre glows;
Thirsty fevers from my lip
Dare the ruddy drops to sip;
Deep within my burning heart
Sorrow plants an icy dart,
From whose point the soft tears flow,
Melting in the vivid glow;
Gentle Zephyr, should'st thou be
Touch'd with tender sympathy
When reflection calls to mind
The bleak and desolating wind
That soon thy silken wing shall tear,
And waft it on the freezing air;
Zephyr, should a tender sigh
To thy balmy bosom fly,
Oh! receive the flutt'ring thing,
Place it on thy filmy wing,
Bear it to its native sky,
For 'tis Pity's softest sigh.
Still a silent waving tide
O'er thy glitt'ring carpet glide,
While I chaunt my roundelay,
As I gather from thy bank,
Shelter'd by the poplar dank,
King-cups, deck'd in golden pride,
Harebells sweet, and “daisies pied;”
While beneath the evening sky
Soft the western breezes fly.
Gentle River, should'st thou be
Touch'd with mournful sympathy,
When reflection tells my soul
Winter's icy breath shall quell
Thy sweet bosom's graceful swell,
And thy dimpling course controul
Should a crystal tear of mine,
Fall upon thy lucid breast,
Oh receive the trembling guest,
For 'tis Pity's drop divine!
229
Shake thy dewy wings around,
Sprinkle odours o'er the ground,
While I chaunt my Roundelay.
While the woodbine's mingling shade
Veils my pensive, drooping head,
Fan, oh fan, the busy gale,
That rudely wantons round my cheek,
Where the tear of suff'rance meek
Glitters on the Lily pale:
Ah! no more the damask Rose
There in crimson lustre glows;
Thirsty fevers from my lip
Dare the ruddy drops to sip;
Deep within my burning heart
Sorrow plants an icy dart,
From whose point the soft tears flow,
Melting in the vivid glow;
Gentle Zephyr, should'st thou be
Touch'd with tender sympathy
When reflection calls to mind
The bleak and desolating wind
That soon thy silken wing shall tear,
And waft it on the freezing air;
Zephyr, should a tender sigh
To thy balmy bosom fly,
230
Place it on thy filmy wing,
Bear it to its native sky,
For 'tis Pity's softest sigh.
O'er the golden lids of day
Steals a veil of sober grey;
While the flow'rets sink to rest
On the moist earth's glitt'ring breast;
Homeward now I'll bend my way,
And chaunt my plaintive Roundelay.
Steals a veil of sober grey;
While the flow'rets sink to rest
On the moist earth's glitt'ring breast;
Homeward now I'll bend my way,
And chaunt my plaintive Roundelay.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |