The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
TO THE ASPIN TREE. |
| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
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TO THE ASPIN TREE.
Why tremble so, broad aspin tree?
Why shake thy leaves unceasing?
At rest thou never seem'st to be:
For when the air is still and clear,
Or when the nipping gale increasing
Shakes from thy boughs soft twilight's tear,
Thou tremblest still, poor aspin tree,
And never resting seem'st to be!
Why shake thy leaves unceasing?
At rest thou never seem'st to be:
For when the air is still and clear,
Or when the nipping gale increasing
Shakes from thy boughs soft twilight's tear,
Thou tremblest still, poor aspin tree,
And never resting seem'st to be!
Beneath thy shade, at sultry noon,
I oft have sat deep musing,—
And oft I watch'd the rising moon
Above the dusky summit shine,
A placid light diffusing!
When all around, a calm divine,
The rest of Nature seem'd to be,
Still did'st thou tremble, aspin tree!
I oft have sat deep musing,—
And oft I watch'd the rising moon
Above the dusky summit shine,
A placid light diffusing!
When all around, a calm divine,
The rest of Nature seem'd to be,
Still did'st thou tremble, aspin tree!
252
Hadst thou sensation, I should say
Thou wert like me,—unchearly
Ordain'd to waste life's hour away,
Indignant at the vulgar crowd,
And doom'd to feel severely,
Scorning the dull, the base, the proud:
But thou art senseless, aspin tree!
Then wherefore thus—a trembler be?
Thou wert like me,—unchearly
Ordain'd to waste life's hour away,
Indignant at the vulgar crowd,
And doom'd to feel severely,
Scorning the dull, the base, the proud:
But thou art senseless, aspin tree!
Then wherefore thus—a trembler be?
Who shall molest thee, shiv'ring tree?
Who shall thy branches sever?
The seasons change—and still to thee
Another Spring shall give its sweets,
And yet thou tremblest ever!
Each whisp'ring gale thy bosom meets,
As tho' it came to menace thee,
Oh! beauteous, trembling aspin tree!
Who shall thy branches sever?
The seasons change—and still to thee
Another Spring shall give its sweets,
And yet thou tremblest ever!
Each whisp'ring gale thy bosom meets,
As tho' it came to menace thee,
Oh! beauteous, trembling aspin tree!
Had'st thou a soul, a sensate mind,
Well might thy branches quiver;
If round thy heart affliction twin'd,
To bid each fibre, torture rung,
Tremble and ach for ever!
Oh! then thy throbbing veins among
The stormy passions wild wou'd be,
And thou wou'dst tremble, aspin tree.
Well might thy branches quiver;
If round thy heart affliction twin'd,
To bid each fibre, torture rung,
Tremble and ach for ever!
Oh! then thy throbbing veins among
The stormy passions wild wou'd be,
And thou wou'dst tremble, aspin tree.
253
Had'st thou e'er lov'd, or ever felt
Warm friendship's ardour glowing;
Had'st thou in pity learn'd to melt,
Or to another's anguish gave
The tear, spontaneous flowing:
Then, sighing might thy branches wave,
And many a gentle show'r from thee
Might fall in tears, sweet aspin tree.
Warm friendship's ardour glowing;
Had'st thou in pity learn'd to melt,
Or to another's anguish gave
The tear, spontaneous flowing:
Then, sighing might thy branches wave,
And many a gentle show'r from thee
Might fall in tears, sweet aspin tree.
Had'st thou e'er known ingratitude,
Thou wou'dst have cause to tremble;
For in misfortune's tempest rude,
The deadliest foe the heart can wound
Is he—who can dissemble!
He who enthralls the willing mind,
And bids the captive bosom be
A trembler—like the aspin tree.
Thou wou'dst have cause to tremble;
For in misfortune's tempest rude,
The deadliest foe the heart can wound
Is he—who can dissemble!
He who enthralls the willing mind,
And bids the captive bosom be
A trembler—like the aspin tree.
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |