The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
WRITTEN ON A FADED BOUQUET. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
248
WRITTEN ON A FADED BOUQUET.
Fair was this blushing rose of May,
And fresh it hail'd morn's breezy hour,
When ev'ry spangled leaf look'd gay,
Besprinkl'd with the twilight show'r;
When to its mossy buds, so sweet,
The Butterfly enamour'd flew,
And hov'ring o'er the fragrant treat,
Oft bath'd its silken leaves in dew.
And fresh it hail'd morn's breezy hour,
When ev'ry spangled leaf look'd gay,
Besprinkl'd with the twilight show'r;
When to its mossy buds, so sweet,
The Butterfly enamour'd flew,
And hov'ring o'er the fragrant treat,
Oft bath'd its silken leaves in dew.
Sweet was this primrose of the dale,
When on its native turf it grew;
And deck'd with charms this lily pale,
And rich this violet's purple hue.
This od'rous woodbine fill'd the grove
With musky gales of balmy pow'r,
When, with the myrtle interwove,
It hung luxuriant round my bow'r.
When on its native turf it grew;
And deck'd with charms this lily pale,
And rich this violet's purple hue.
This od'rous woodbine fill'd the grove
With musky gales of balmy pow'r,
When, with the myrtle interwove,
It hung luxuriant round my bow'r.
249
Ah, rose! forgive the hand severe
That snatch'd thee from thy scented bed,
Where, bow'd with many a pearly tear,
Thy widow'd partner droops its head.
And thou, sweet violet, modest flow'r!
Oh! take my soft relenting sigh,
Nor stain the heart, whose glowing pow'r
With too much fondness bade thee die!
That snatch'd thee from thy scented bed,
Where, bow'd with many a pearly tear,
Thy widow'd partner droops its head.
And thou, sweet violet, modest flow'r!
Oh! take my soft relenting sigh,
Nor stain the heart, whose glowing pow'r
With too much fondness bade thee die!
Sweet lily, had I never gaz'd
With rapture on thy gentle form,
Thou might'st have died, unknown, unprais'd,
The victim of some ruthless storm!
Where fickle love his altar rears,
Your tiny bells had learn'd to wave;
Or, sadly gem'd with kindred tears,
Had strown some hapless lover's grave.
With rapture on thy gentle form,
Thou might'st have died, unknown, unprais'd,
The victim of some ruthless storm!
Where fickle love his altar rears,
Your tiny bells had learn'd to wave;
Or, sadly gem'd with kindred tears,
Had strown some hapless lover's grave.
Inconstant woodbine! wherefore rove,
With gadding stem, about my bow'r?
Why, with my darling myrtle wove,
In bold defiance mock my pow'r?
Why quit thy native garden fair,
To flaunt thy buds, thy odours fling,
And idly greet the passing air,
On ev'ry wanton zephyr's wing?
With gadding stem, about my bow'r?
Why, with my darling myrtle wove,
In bold defiance mock my pow'r?
Why quit thy native garden fair,
To flaunt thy buds, thy odours fling,
And idly greet the passing air,
On ev'ry wanton zephyr's wing?
250
Oh! yet repine not, tho' stern Fate
Hath nip'd thy leaves of varying hue,
Since all that's lovely, soon or late,
Shall sicken, fade, and die like you!
The fire of youth, the port of age,
Nor wisdom's voice, nor beauty's bloom,
Th' insatiate tyrant can assuage,
Nor check the hand that seal'd your doom!
Hath nip'd thy leaves of varying hue,
Since all that's lovely, soon or late,
Shall sicken, fade, and die like you!
The fire of youth, the port of age,
Nor wisdom's voice, nor beauty's bloom,
Th' insatiate tyrant can assuage,
Nor check the hand that seal'd your doom!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |